All Things Questionable
by MissEmmaPerry
Summary: "I don't imagine it's easy to be you, Malfoy. I've seen enough of your father - I know enough of your father. But if you think that's an excuse to barrel your way through life with your head down, shrouding yourself in your own cowardice at the expense of others, you're wrong. You're still accountable, and you'll never hear otherwise from me." follows Hermione through her 6th year.
1. Saturday Morning Blues

Disclaimer- I do not own Harry Potter, nor am I in any way affiliated with the franchise. Harry Potter, Hermione Granger, Draco Malfoy, and all characters herein are the sole property and creation of the brilliant J.K. Rowling, even if I do like to think of her as my split personality.

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Chapter One- Saturday Morning Blues

Some people may claim that the trick to a happy life is to keep a habit of constant honesty with oneself; to lie inside yourself – say, tell yourself how it's alright to smoke your final cigarettes today because, of course, you will quit tomorrow – leads to nothing but the growth of something unhealthy, something that can never be a benefit. Logically, of course, there is nothing that can really refute that besides the concept of the Power of Positive Thinking, but while the difference between one fooling oneself and one simply believing that _everything will be okay_ (or something along those lines) may be as undefined and ever-flowing as the dust motes that swirl through a sunbeam, the difference still exists.

Hermione Granger had, over the work of many years, somehow lost her ability to discern between those two points of balance; the life that she'd cultivated quite literally fed on internal lies, and to her they were unconscious, because one of those lies to herself was that she could do literally anything she set her mind to. And that _was_ positive thinking, wasn't it?

It was a Saturday morning and the sky which hung over the Hogwarts castle was a pristine powder blue, streaked with clouds bathed in the orange light of the rising sun. Already there was commotion outside Hermione's door, but the sounds of tromping feet and raucous voices failed to wake her simply because she'd been awake an hour already. She'd started from sleep as completely and jarringly as if someone had grabbed her by her ankles and yanked her out of bed. She'd become an expert at waking herself as early as possible to squeeze the absolute most from her day, eyes snapping open in the middle of a dream and rolling from under her covers as if she had a fire to fight, but things had changed a little. It was no longer a chipper feeling to be awake. It wasn't bad, necessarily, it was only that once her brain kicked into even the slightest consciousness, she found herself briskly running through a list of things she hoped to strike off her List during the day, simultaneously panicking in the back of her mind that she'd never get them done.

This morning was no different, even if it was Saturday.

Alone in her private room, (one of the perks of having a Prefect's badge tucked away in the drawer of her bedside table), she'd risen from sleep and immediately started on the task of dressing herself using only half her attention. With the other half she scanned through her mental schedule.

There was a foot and a half due to Snape on the proper use of darkness detectors for Tuesday to complete, alongside the analysis and response to the essay question of the chapter they'd been assigned to read; she'd yet to even _read_ the chapter, a fact which knocked against her left temple like a persistent neighbor. _God, then there's Runes,_ she thought, and as she pulled an olive green sweater over her mane of hair and smoothed it over her body, she wondered, not for the first time, why she'd elected to continue that infernal course. At one point, she'd found it fascinating, but Runes, much like History of Magic, had become redundant and demanding.

She stuck one leg through a pair of black pants hurriedly, wobbling around for balance as she lifted the second. _So much to do,_ she thought, even her internal voice echoed with harassment. She tore a brush through her hair and tied it into a bun near the top of her hand, trying to breathe slowly with her arms in the air, hoping to calm down the quaking anxiety. It wouldn't be that hard to do; she knew that by the time she sat down for breakfast and her issue of the _Daily Prophet_ , she would be A-Ok, just swell.

Once she finished she flew through her bedroom in long, purposeful strides, skipping down the spiral staircase into the common room, which was now bursting with Saturday morning activity. Ron and Lavender Brown were groping each other just in front of the staircase, as if Ron had accosted her the moment she'd come from her dormitory. Hermione nearly collided with them, missing by less than a foot, and then had to sidestep a first year girl running past with a knitted bag clutched to her chest, the ponytail on the top of her head bobbing wildly.

Hermione sighed in exasperation, but the way was clear to the portrait hole and the traffic to the Great Hall was at its minimum.

At the Gryffindor table Harry was already halfway through a bowl of thick, steaming porridge. He only looked up when she sat down.

"Morning," he said, picking up his orange juice and drinking heavily.

"Hello," Hermione said cheerily. The ceiling above them reflected with brightening clouds, the air all around the hall was crisp and cool, bringing on her favorite smell of soft cleanliness. Today would be a good one, if she allowed it to be. Starting now, she would do that. "Hungry this morning?" she observed.

"I feel like I've been on a hunger strike," Harry grinned. "I dunno, maybe I just feel the need to bulk up."

"Right, because you're such a feeble thing." She teased.

There was a heavy thud as Ginny Weasley fell onto the bench next to Harry, her forehead falling straight to his shoulder as she let out a sigh to combat the god of wind.

"I don't want to be awake. Why am I awake, Hermione?" She twisted her head against Harry's shoulder (who hadn't even batted an eye) to look at Hermione through bleary eyes.

"Because you're sensible, Ginny, and you want to squeeze all you can out of life." Hermione replied lightly, picking an orange from the golden, glimmering bowl to her left.

"There's just something so awful about the morning." Was all Ginny said, and promptly went to shutting her eyes and keeping them closed, until Ron and Lavender sat down to Hermione's right, arms around each other's waists.

"Pour some pumpkin juice for me, Won-Won." Lavender crooned, nuzzling Won-Won's neck as he worked to disentangle himself and reach for the flagon.

"Anything for you, my love," he replied seriously.

Ginny picked her head up from Harry's shoulder and looked Hermione in the eyes, her face a blank slate. "I think I see Luna." She said, and with that and a kiss to Harry's cheek – so forceful he leant a little to the side with wide eyes – she departed, her robes swishing behind her. Hermione heard her mutter distinctly as she went "bloody nut-jobs, those two."

Hermione glanced at Lavender, whose face was pinched as she looked after Ginny.

"I wish she would have stayed." She said forlornly. "I feel as if she's my sister too, you know. We should really get to know each other, shouldn't we, Ronald?"

"Erm… Well, if she's open, I mean – You can ask, " He blustered for a moment and then chuckled, waving his hand awkwardly. Then he looked to Harry, feigning a casual expression. "Want to take the brooms out for a bit, mate?"

"Perfect day for it," Harry said, finally looking up again from his bowl. "Sure, yeah. What'll you be doing, Hermione? Want to come down to the pitch?"

"I would, but I've got loads to do," said Hermione. "I'll be barricaded in the library until Thursday."

"You can study at the pitch," he said, waving this off. "Come on out with us."

"How can you stay in that musty old cavern on a day like this?" asked Ron incredulously. "Hermione, you _need_ the sun. And as of right now the only exposure you've had is through the glass during Herbology. Greenhouse gasses are bad for you, you know. I say this as your friend."

He pressed a hand to his chest in sincerity, only a hint of mockery on his lips. Lavender, tired of having no part of the conversation, spoke up with, "That isn't how greenhouse gasses work, you silly."

Hermione snorted into her pumpkin juice and Ron only grinned and clapped her on the back; he was accustomed to the way his humor sometimes glided straight over Lavender's head.

"As dear as your concern is, Ron, I need to be away from distractions." She said. "In fact, I think I'll go ahead and get there now, I have _loads_ to do."

"You haven't even eaten anything!" Harry cried, but Hermione rose to leave, shouldering her messenger bag and smiling wanly. He was right; she hadn't even stayed long enough to receive post.

"Yes, but unlike the two of you," she stared between Ron and Harry pointedly. "I prefer to get my things done before the last minute."

She stepped over the bench, striding through the Hall and passing through the great oaken doors. She'd taken no more than three paces into the main corridor when she collided with a solid barrier; or, rather, a solid barrier mowed her over, sending her straight into the stone doorway to the hall. A sharp pain flooded her through her spine.

" _Ugh_ , bloody _hell,"_ snarled a hateful voice. Hermione looked up to meet the stormy eyes of Draco Malfoy, his trademark scowl making the silver in them swirl like molten alloy. "Perfect way to start the day."

"It wasn't as if I meant to," said Hermione, her colour rising almost immediately. "Besides, you're the one stomping around like some great oaf."

Malfoy scoffed. "You should simply try looking where you're going, Mudblood," he said, his mouth spitting the last word like venom. "Maybe that way you'll find you never ruin the mornings of the important people."

He shook the sleeve of his cobalt blue Oxford shirt with disgust, as if flicking off dried vomit.

"You're daft," said Hermione, laughing derisively, shouldering past him with more guts than she'd thought she had. Something about _Malfoy_ just made her seethe, melting away any of her usual shyness or trepidation with people who intimidated her.

Perhaps _intimidated_ wasn't the right word; Malfoy had this quality of constant antagonism just etched on every line of his face. Every expression the nerves there seemed to muster apparently served no other purpose than the ruffle the feathers of decent people. Right from the day she'd first met him she hadn't liked the look of him; the stark aura of superiority that hung around him like vapor seemed to emanate from him and become palpable to those around him with any ounce of proper class and thinking, like the dense humidity of a Floridian swamp. Not that Hermione had ever _been_ to Florida, but one minute with Malfoy made her feel like she was in adaption training to live in a bog or something equally horrific. And it had only increased the more she saw of him, skyrocketing during that moment in the second year - that day he strode up to poke barbs at Harry, backed by his purchased teammates of the Slytherin Quidditch team - spitting at her much as he was doing now when she'd tried to defend her best friend… otherwise known to Hermione as the first time he'd ever called her a Mudblood. The first time _anyone_ had ever called her a Mudblood.

He would never let her forget that look of deep-seated antipathy in his eyes either, as if taking in the sight of her caused him a very great personal cost. He'd flung it at her every time their eyes chanced to meet.

Still, however, she had every intention of walking away from him and letting the sleeping dogs lay at rest, until he suddenly came barreling up from behind, clamping his cold hand over her wrist and steering her around to face him.

"You owe me an apology, Granger," he said quietly, eyes narrowed. Her face showed him nothing but defiance and indignation, the only expressions s _he'd_ ever offered _him._ "That's once you've touched me on accident, and once on purpose. That makes two strikes in my opinion, which is plenty enough for me to hex you until we're even."

Hermione jerked herself free and took a wide step forward, forcing him to back up a few paces. Malfoy tried to stumble in a dignified manner. Hermione was now angry enough to forget to point out that he'd just been touching her himself.

"You self-postulating animal," she hissed. "You and I both know I'd have you on the floor in agony before you so much as raised your wand. Don't waste your feeble threats on me, _Malfoy._ You haven't even come close to posing a challenge to me since third year."

She cocked an eyebrow at him. "Or have you forgotten that I don't even need my wand to make you sorry?"

He backed away even further, fuming and hating how close he'd been to her. He could practically feel the anger radiating from her, minglingwith the smell of her foul blood.

"The only reason you failed to lose that weak hand of yours was because I don't hit women." He said, eyeing her from her feet to her face. "Although, the term _woman_ may not even apply here…"

Hermione simply chortled, finding a grotesque sort of amusement in his childishness.

"Right." Was all she said, and with that she turned from him and headed for the library, making sure she looked as unbothered as possible to Malfoy, as though she knew he would watch her go.

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 **A/N**

This is my very first attempt at writing fanfiction. I won't beg for reviews, but I do hope that any of you who do happen to read this chapter may find something worth noting, whether it's encouragement or criticism. I tried to keep the style of writing as close to the original work of the brilliant J.K. Rowling, and I will continue to do so. I'll also try my very best to keep the characters along the same track as their original counterparts. I hope to maintain as much authenticity as possible.

However, this story is from the point of view of characters completely different from Harry Potter, so there will be stark differences. Plus, you know, I'm NOT J.K. Rowling, no matter how much I wish I were.

I genuinely hope those of you who read my chapters will find enjoyment in them. I want to provide you good people with some good writing. It would help to know how I'm doing, but like I said, if you can't find anything worth mentioning to me in a review, that's quite alright. I'm mostly doing this simply because I love to write, and it feels nice to have something "published", you know?

Anyway, I'm going to be posting a new chapter soon enough. Perhaps within a day, but I'm sure we all know how busy an adult life can be.

Yours Truly,

Emma Perry


	2. Thinking and Thinking and Thinking

Chapter Two –

Hermione Granger was – by rule – a thoroughly consistent person; there was nothing she loved or craved more than the feeling of routine, that all things were going as they should. Perhaps that was what was alluring about the library: nothing ever changes, besides the lighting, and even with that, there was no time of day or night that the library wasn't favored by. Whether she read her books by candlelight alone, or aided by beams of the sun reaching through the great latticed windows which lined the walls didn't matter much to Hermione. The musty old cavern was always beautiful and inviting. And, as far as she could remember, nothing terrible had ever happened within its walls. It was a safe place, simply put, full of her favorite thing in the world – knowledge.

She spent all morning in the library that Saturday, only emerging with just enough time to make it to the Great Hall for lunch. She completed all of her homework for Defense Against the Dark Arts, Arithmancy, and Runes – she'd even managed to fly through her Runes translations, _and_ she'd already researched the proper method for preparing the Draught of the Living Dead, which she knew would have to come up some time soon in Slughorn's class, if not the next lesson, then the one after that. She barely even broke a sweat.

When she was finally able to leave the confines of the library, the anxiety that had shaken her awake that morning had all but dissipated. It wasn't gone away completely; Hermione found that these days, she hardly ever had a moment completely free from any nagging thoughts, any persistent feelings of inevitable failure. But now it was easy enough to file those feelings under her casual, ever-present nerves, the nerves that had always been with her for as long as she could remember.

She shouldered her bag and lifted her books into her arms, thankful that she was able to leave so many behind, now that she'd made a real dent in her coursework. She left the library with only a slight pang (again, one of those ever-present inward habits to keep working, keep working, keep working), and navigated her way through the wide, airy halls. Some students filtered past here and there, but the walk straight from the library, especially during a Saturday, always so sparse. It only really picked up again when she neared the main corridor.

She tried to savor the feel of Hogwarts as she went, but Hermione found that much more difficult than she used to; so many things had changed.

It had actually been some time, she mused, since Hogwarts felt like it once did. It still held an incalculable aura of comfort and greatness, qualities which Hermione doubted these halls would lose. It was still safe, too, in some ways, but more and more Hermione began to wonder if it was only delusion. Since she'd first stepped foot under the high ceiling at its opening she'd been led to believe that Hogwarts was the safest place on Earth for her – for everyone. Yet year after year some evil found its way in – and now, as she was thinking of it, a sudden realization powdered her thoughts like glass being ground into candescent sand…

Perhaps Hogwarts had never been safe at all… Perhaps it truly was a delusion.

Hermione had been a child when the letter from Hogwarts came. One similarity she shared with Harry in regards to their childhoods (perhaps the only similarity at all) was that she hadn't had any clue about who she was, _what_ she was. She'd always known she'd been gifted with a thirst for knowledge and a pursuit of excellence. So as she aged her vibrant yet childlike mind had simply taken the abilities that had started to form as proof of her constant efforts of will. Even her parents had seen the strangeness in her, and subconsciously they assumed the same, although it was something they never talked about with her until the day her letter arrived. And then, they'd just smiled at her, as if they'd known it made perfect sense that a child such as Hermione could never belong in such a simple world.

She went to Hogwarts with every expectation of happiness, of achievement and wonder. She was more than willing to embrace the school as the place that was her own, completely – the place she had always been meant for, now that it had become so obvious the Muggle world was only half her home. Never mind anything especially odd, anything that may have risen her hairs or frightened her. Anything that might have made her weary of Hogwarts would have made her weary of who she was, and where she was destined to be. So she swallowed the fact that an evil wizard spent an entire school term protruding from the back of her teacher's head (a teacher whom she'd actually liked, in some way. Professor Quirrell, with his stammering speech and anxious persona had tugged a little on her sympathies), and that sometimes dark and coveted things were hidden deep within the wells of Hogwarts. Her mind, as young as it was, still found itself capable of expanding to admit any new peculiar occurrence or terrifying discover into her minds range of what was normal.

Hermione was older now; things were happening, and all of those things seemed to be an amalgamation of sparks that had ignited years ago. Voldemort's initial return – the opening of the Chamber – _Pettigrew_ hidden under her nose one moment, back at his master's side the next – and so on, until finally she was here. Back at Hogwarts. Back to the safety that hadn't actually been all that safe at all. She could, at the most, say that Hogwarts was the place where she narrowly avoided catastrophe after catastrophe with Harry and Ron, based on pure dumb luck.

No, she couldn't exactly say that she felt the peak of all the terror. Harry alone could say that, could say that he'd avoided Death so many times it was insane to even think about. But she could say that she _felt_ it all alongside him, not that anyone would understand if she'd tried to explain it.

Hermione saw Harry now, his arm over Ginny's shoulders as she copied notes onto parchment from her fifth year potions text. She felt a contented smile pull at the corners of her mouth, seeing him so happy with Ginny. _I wouldn't change any of it for the world,_ thought Hermione, and her heart warmed at the truth of it. With all the dangers and all the bloody pitfalls, Hogwarts was home to her because she had never been so happy or accepted by anyone, other than her parents. Harry had always accepted her, from day one. It was good to see him relaxed for once, and she knew that had a lot to do with Voldemort's return finally being recognized. He was free from the scowls and the fear-turned-hatred that had been directed towards him.

She sat down across from Harry as she always did, still smiling genuinely.

"You're in a good mood." Ginny remarked, glancing up at Hermione through her lashes. "I'm assuming you've just finished reading something highly educational."

"Indeed I have Ginny, thank you." She smiled archly and looked over to Harry. "I've now memorized the recipe for the Draught of the Living Dead."

"Well. I'm happy for you, Hermione." Harry said, grinning easily.

"You know that'll be the next one Slughorn asks us for." Hermione pointed out, rather smugly.

An amused look of understanding dawned on Harry. "I know what you're on about Hermione, and I'm telling you, the Prince has still got you beat."

"There's no way, Harry." Said Hermione, and then with a slight tone of concern she began, "I really hope you're at least thinking about what I said. No good can come of it. If your grades are the worry then I can obviously help you more, but…"

"Seriously Hermione, it's not a huge deal." Said Ginny, and for once Hermione wasn't thankful for her input. "I've looked at the book loads of times and there's nothing really in there besides alternate directions. The worst that could happen would be Harry blowing up his cauldron, and Neville's got him beat in that race."

Hermione chose not to answer. She reached for one of the ham sandwiches piled high on one of the golden plates (compulsively wondering which of the House-elves made it for her and mentally thanking them) and bit into it with a look of dim frustration. She'd been brushed off, and there was little she could say to argue against it that she hadn't already said, so instead she took to looking around the Hall.

She glanced over the Ravenclaw where Cho Chang sat with her chin leaning on her hand, looking positively dejected, to the Staff Table, where only Professor Vector admired her fork between looks over the students to make sure no one hexed each other. Her eyes fell on the Slytherin table and unconsciously swept its length, looking for the house's human embodiment.

Vincent Crabbe and Pansy Parkinson sat on either side of Draco Malfoy, who looked off into the distance with a bored look on his face. Hermione remembered the way he'd shoved her away from him earlier and felt that indignation rise once more.

Yet again she found herself thinking back to that day he'd called her a Mudblood for the first time, and then promptly laughed as Ron backfired a curse onto himself while trying to defend her.

Of course she'd been made fun of before that at the Muggle primary school she'd went to, but then it had only been in that typical, shallow way that she'd read about in books. Just kids picking on other, less-cool kids. Hermione Granger had never been considered cool, so she was made fun of quite frequently about her wild, curly hair or her prominent front teeth. Now she mentally found herself thanking Malfoy, ironically enough; without his spiteful hex in fifth year, she would have never gotten the guts to shrink her teeth to a more appropriate size.

What she couldn't thank Malfoy for was his role in teaching her about discrimination. She'd never _really_ known what it felt like to be hated for something she couldn't help at all. Every time Malfoy looked at her, she could practically read his thoughts through his eyes. They seemed to say, _I know that I am better than you, I know that you are less than I am._

At that moment, Professor McGonagall came striding through the doors between the Gryffindor and Ravenclaw table. Malfoy looked up and over in Hermione's direction, catching her mid-stare. He immediately narrowed his eyes into slits, remembering their encounter this morning.

She'd been looking at him with an expression of pure hatred, and he made sure to make his own seethe just as much.

 _Mudblood Granger_ , he though viciously. Since he'd met Hermione, her face had become the first image that came to his mind when Muggle-borns were so much as mentioned. To him she was like their emblem, blazing red and gold, the prime example of a class who just couldn't seem to remember their place.

His eyes assessed her as she looked away quickly. He didn't care much about what she and McGonagall were talking about as the Professor stopped and addressed her. He was simply noticing for the hundredth time how very abominable her appearance was. Granger just _looked_ like the epitome of all things pinched and uptight. Whenever he saw her he thought of dusty books snapping shut brusquely and loud, opinionated outbursts. All things haughty and stuck-up. _Ignorant_ , even, in the way she didn't seem to care about her inferiority, simply sucking all of Hogwarts dry with a mind that was too ordinary to appreciate the worth of power.

Malfoy hated the way her eyes looked, and he would have even if she hadn't happened to be Potter's personal assistant. Whenever he made contact with them he noted the belligerent defiance that seemed to streak through them, and because he was baffled by it, he hated it.

Meanwhile, as he finally tore his eyes away and began eating his sandwich with frustration that hadn't been there a moment ago; Hermione had already forgotten all about him, all her attention now focused on McGonagall.

"Afternoon, Miss Granger. I trust I find you well." Said McGonagall in her usual brisk manner, "It's only your third Saturday this term and I realize you may have other things you would rather do, but the weather is turning, as you can see," she indicated the enchanted ceiling above them, and indeed the sky was churning lazily with puffy, gunmetal clouds. "Three Prefects are to supervise the younger students here in the hall until the weather clears, and one of them will have to be you."

"That's alright Professor," Hermione said immediately, thinking wistfully of the library. "I don't mind in the least."

"I thought to hear no less." McGonagall gave her an approving nod and swept away, her steps echoing dully through the Hall.

Hermione expected Professor McGonagall to leave, but instead she watched as McGonagall made a sudden left and travelled all the way to the Slytherin table. She gave an involuntary sigh of dread as McGonagall stopped to stand over Malfoy, looking much more threatening, as though to ward off any snide remarks or arguments on his part.

Harry craned his neck around to see Hermione's line of vision and chuckled. "I'll bet you mind a lot more now."

Hermione flushed with anger as Malfoy suddenly cast a dark look in her direction, his nostrils flared in hateful resignation.

"I really do." Hermione muttered.

"No, this is good. This is _great_ actually…" Harry said emphatically. He leaned forward, lowering his voice as though people were listening in. "Hermione, you can watch him, see if he does anything suspicious."

"Harry, we're going to be watching _children._ " Said Hermione slowly, "It not as though he'll have an opportunity for evil-doing."

"You can still watch him for signs. Anything, really – odd looks, behavior."

"Alright then," Hermione said reasonably. "I'll be on my guard Harry. If he should so much as _look_ hateful or malicious, I will certainly let you know. That would certainly be odd for Malfoy."

Ginny snorted and Harry shot her a brief look of annoyance.

"You know what I mean, Hermione."

She sighed heavily. "Yes, Harry. Unfortunately I do know what you mean."

Hermione trailed her eyes back to Malfoy. Of course, he was still flinging daggers at her with his eyes. Again she thought longingly of the library.

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 **A/N** Thankfully this chapter has already been completed and posted. I got home from work and I just started writing! I suppose I was just ready to get the ball rolling.

I've noticed that I already have five followers for this story; I know that isn't many by a long-shot, but it's totally enough for me! I want to thank you five, whoever you are, for giving my story a chance, and I sincerely hope you like it. I'm sorry if the first two chapters are a little slow. I intend for this story to be a good one, and as such I've got to lay a little ground-work ;)

Again, thank you to those five awesome souls who've chosen to follow this story. It means quite a bit to me. Also, thank you to anyone who's read the story at all! The next chapter should be up within a couple of days.

Your Truly,

Emma Perry.


	3. Painful Distractions

* Thank you to all who've followed the story so far. Being the third chapter, this one will be longer, and the story will really start to take off. I hope you like it :)

* * *

Chapter Three –

Every one of Draco Malfoy's miserable thoughts and emotions, all of which had only moments ago been swirling around his chest, were all now completely centered on McGonagall and the Mudblood Granger. His sneer followed the Professor as she strode away from him, leaving the hall with those harsh, deliberate steps that grated on Draco's nerves. Granger, he knew, would be dreading the arrangement nearly as much as he would, but that only served to boil his blood even further. It wasn't her place to dread his company. Granger was the blot on _his_ already tempestuous day, and he wondered angrily where she found the nerve to consider him to be the problem.

Suddenly he felt an arm slithering around his shoulders, slim, cold, and uncomfortable.

Pansy brushed her fingertips through his hair at the back of his neck and sighed, "Oh, Draco, I'm sorry. A whole afternoon at least with Mangy Granger!" She tried to pull him into her and Draco extricated himself as quickly as possible, sliding at least a foot to the left and glaring at Crabbe to move over.

Pansy looked hurt, her eyebrows meeting together over eyes she quickly cast away from him, but he couldn't find it in himself to care. He couldn't remember the last time he'd even encouraged any of her moves or affections. Well, he had never actually _encouraged_ Pansy's affections at all, but there had been a time when he'd tolerated them. It had been weeks, at least, since he'd let her touch him at all, and she still hadn't seemed to take the hint. Of course, Draco had never officially called anything off between them, but that seemed fair enough, considering nothing had ever been officially declared between them either.

The hurt on Pansy's face was fleeting enough; after only a moment she had brightened and began speaking again, keeping her voice as upbeat as possible. There was even a hint of her usual snide and conceited air as she went on about Granger.

"I suppose I can't say I'm surprised she was made Prefect, seeing as Dumbledore has such a fascination of their kind," she wrinkled her nose in disgust. "But still, to make _her_ in charge of anyone! She isn't like you, Draco. She doesn't really deserve it."

Malfoy scoffed. "As if that matters, with Dumbledore's bleeding heart for her cause." His hooded eyes found Granger again, and a stab of suspicion flooded his senses. He watched as she said something to Potter, a look of mild acquiescence on her face. Potter cast a furtive look over his shoulder, as if checking for prying ears. Malfoy didn't like it.

Ron only showed up for lunch with minutes left in the hour, and he ate more than he spoke, of course. It seemed he had very few words to offer, but he did at the very least, find it within himself to say something brutish and antagonistic.

"Blimey, Hermione," he expostulated, bright yellow mustard now smeared across the bottom of his chin. "Why d'you look so… anemic?"

Hermione closed her expression and briefly met Ginny's eyes as if to say, _this is precisely why I avoid you people._

"I'm telling you, all that time indoors is making you look all grey." He waved half of a cucumber sandwich at her. "You're looking peaky, you are. You should come outside with us. We fancied a trip to Hagrid's."

"You'll have to go without me," said Hermione, that feeling of dread coming back once again. She'd often been forced into circumstances with Draco Malfoy, but she'd never actually been without her friends during those occasions. Even last year Ron had still been a prefect, so he was around her constantly, there to attract all of Malfoy's rancid manners and words. The word "bloodtraitor" always seemed to mean more to Malfoy than "Mudblood". Hermione sighed. "And before you go on with all your badgering, I haven't got much of a choice."

"McGonagall's given her Prefect duty." Harry clarified, catching the argumentative way Ron opened his mouth to respond. "She'll be watching the kids with Malfoy."

Ron gave a short laugh. "That's brilliant," he said, and catching Hermione's eye added, "Sorry, but you should have just defected, like me."

"That's ridiculous, Ronald." Hermione jabbed. "I'm not going to turn in my badge simply because Malfoy happens to be dreadful company. I can handle him."

"Besides, it's a good chance to get an eye on him." Said Harry bracingly. "She'll be fine, mate. Hermione's perfectly capable of looking after herself." He said this last bit in a manner of pure confidence with a grin at Hermione.

A sudden look of concern flashed over Ron's expression. He leaned in towards Hermione, his voice lowered a little. "Maybe it's a better idea if I hang around. I don't like the idea of you alone with him."

"We won't be alone, Ron." Hermione sighed. "We'll be in a hall full of children, and there'll be a third Prefect. Not that I know who that is yet, but whoever they are, they can't be worse than Malfoy."

"Yeah, well… Either way, I don't think you should listen to Harry. Just keep a wide distance from him, no sense in provoking him."

Hermione laughed derisively. "That's rich, coming from you!" she cried. "How many times has Harry had to hold you back from getting the snot hexed out of yourself –

Ron cried out in indignation. "I would _not_ lose against Malfoy."

"You know what I mean," Hermione said, suppressing a grin "I'm only saying that I've never exactly been known as the one who starts all the rows we've had with him so far."

"Still," said Ron darkly. "Stay clear of him."

"You don't have to tell me that, Ron." Hermione said, equally sober. "I will."

* * *

Hermione had completely meant what she'd said; she had absolutely no intention to interact with Malfoy in any way, and had gone as far as to station herself as far away from him as possible, settling at the Hufflepuff table and supervising a cluster of second years playing a particularly raucous game of Gobstones. She would have quieted them, but she couldn't find the heart. Here they were on a Saturday packed together in the Great Hall, which, besides the prospect of eating during certain times of the day, held very little promise of entertainment. The older students were allowed to go outside still, trusted to stay sensible of the weather on their own, or they could simply ramble about the castle and go wherever they wanted, as long as they didn't run into Filch, who didn't like anyone going anywhere. She'd decided on light reading, a copy of the Muggle book she'd brought with her from her home called Jane Eyre. Reading for entertainment was unlike studying simply because Hermione found it was easier to divide her attention between Bronte's words and the children she was meant to be watching. They could have a bit of fun, as long as they stayed in line.

Padma Patil turned out to be the third Prefect put in charge of the younger students. She and Hermione got on well enough, but neither of them felt much inclination for talking to the other. They were alike in that they both had to proclivity towards withdrawing themselves, and so Padma sat at the Ravenclaw table alone, simply staring about the Hall with a look of concentration. Padma took her job as Prefect even more seriously than Hermione did, she knew, so Hermione was unsurprised to see the suspicious expression on her face serving as a spotlight for any student who so much as neared the opening of the Hall.

Hermione was at peace, mostly. She would have preferred to be at Hagrid's with her friends, suddenly realizing she hadn't seen him once since she arrived at the school. But she was reading, and she was left alone, and that was apparently enough for her.

Malfoy was sulking on one of the steps that led up to the platform on which the staff table sprawled, looking at nothing in particular, unable to think of anything to keep himself entertained. Eventually he began observing his surroundings, reminding himself over and over again that he would rather have been alone. He needed to be alone, he needed to think. And it seemed that whenever there was as little as one person near him, he couldn't think at all about the things that were demanding his attention, sending frantic little signals through all of his synapses.

He leaned forward, elbows supported on his knees, and ran a hand through his hair. At least the Mistress of Propriety hadn't assigned Pansy to supervise with him. He supposed he had random rotation to thank for that… the same randomness that had landed him here with that bookish Ravenclaw and Potter's babysitter had apparently assisted him in that way.

Draco suddenly found himself thinking of his mother. In a strange way, Pansy reminded Draco of Narcissa. His recognition of their similarities came up not too long ago, some minutes after seeing her for the first time since the end of last term, when they had ridden on the Hogwart's Express together. Pansy didn't necessarily look like Narcissa. She had dark hair, dark eyes, and a mouth that stretched across her face, whereas Narcissa was all things Ice, with pale blonde hair and cool blue eyes. But Pansy had this way of arranging her face that seriously favored Draco's mother – a certain way she pursed her lips and wrinkled her nose at people or things she considered unsavory. And then there was the way she was always doting on him, with that patronizing simmer she didn't even try to hide, as if she prided herself with some conviction to be the only one who knew him.

Malfoy frowned at his hands; Pansy didn't know him at all, not really. They'd spoken briefly about his FUTURE (he seemed to think of that word in capital letters, such a powerful noun it had become to him lately) with Blaise and he'd let them make their guesses, but that was all he'd ever done for Pansy. For anyone, really. He'd always just let people assume what they would about him, even when his friends thought he'd been the Heir who opened the Chamber of Secrets, he'd let them assume, and he'd never done anything to correct them. Although, at that time he hadn't really wanted to. At that time, the prospect of being feared felt right to him.

He hadn't seen Narcissa since she waved him off at Platform 9 ¾ over a month ago, and before that he hadn't been alone with his mother since shortly after Lucius' failure. He thought back to that now, hating the way the memory seemed to taint his senses, even making his saliva taste bitter in his mouth.

His mother, her hair falling from the knot at the base of her head, framing her face… Her wide eyes, positively bugging from her head in fear as she placed either hand on his shoulders and hissed, "Draco, they will come for you."

"What would the ministry want with me? As far as they know, I've got nothing to do with Father. They can't blame me for his crimes." Said Malfoy, and he felt surprise clench his throat shut as she placed her hands on his cheeks now, pleading at him with her eyes. Her desperation seemed to seep from her finger tips into his skin.

"No, Draco. The Dark Lord will come. He will come if you don't go to him." She'd straightened up now, and as she looked down her nose at her son, she seemed to be almost apologizing to him. "Bellatrix wants to take you to him."

He'd protested, he'd thrown an absolute fit, his fear turning him into more of a child than he really was, but Narcissa simply put her arms around him and whispered for him to trust her. He had closed his eyes, unable to remember the last time she'd hugged him. Perhaps the day he got his letter from Hogwarts, but then he couldn't remember if he'd made that up or not.

"You may not know this, Draco, but I love you." She half-whispered as she pulled away. "I'll need you to trust me. I'll need you to trust your aunt, and above all, I'll need you to remember who you are. We can never forget that now, my dear. It's too late for us to forget."

From then on Draco had only seen his mother twice, during the "ceremony" at Borgin and Burke's, and as she bid him goodbye at King's Cross.

Draco looked up from his hands and his eyes fell on Padma Patil, absently watching her watch the students, seeing right through her.

Out of anyone in the world, Draco had come to closest to loving Narcissa. She had never been one to show him affection, but he had felt it intermittently, whether it was from the way she gazed at him as he tried on a set of dress robes she liked or tried (rather feebly, yes, but she had tried) to defend him from Lucius. She took pride in him, and wanted to keep him close; those things she'd always made obvious. He couldn't positively say that he loved her as he should have. That would have been a foreign concept to him; but he could tell himself that he was close to her, and he knew what it would do to him if anything ever happened to take her away.

"It's too late for us to forget." She had said.

He'd puzzled over that these few months. What had she meant? Did she want to forget who she was? Did she wish that _he_ could forget? He remembered the way she'd seemed to beg for atonement as she'd looked at him, and the back of his mind began whispering things he didn't want to hear. What good was it to consider if it was all too late, anyway? The simple truth was that Narcissa had really been asking him to dedicate himself to following any and all orders that came his way from the Dark Lord. He intended to do that, if only to banish the memory of her eyes and her infectious fear and… (regret)

He began to follow a track of his usual cynic thinking, wondering why things had turned out this way. Why did he have to be so damn involved? The war was the root of it all. And it was officially a war now, wasn't it: The war against Mudbloods, with all their poisonous expectations and greedy fingers, constantly grappling for more of what they didn't deserve…? Without them, what would Voldemort have to hate?

His eyes sought Granger of their own accord, and as they fell on her he felt that familiar swelling of antipathy for everything she stood for, with her nose in a book – probably not even from the magical world, probably written by the grubby hands of some grubby Muggle – and the collar of her proper little sweater that fell only a couple of inches from her neckline.

He felt an abrasive urge to ruin her day somehow. Just one day he wanted mucked up for her, just one small tear from her eye that would scream his victory. She was the emblem of the Muggle-borns, after all. She was the perfect punching bag at this point, and he allowed his feet to carry him purposefully over to her.

"What's that you're reading, Mangy Granger?" He spat, using Pansy's name from earlier. Whether he was exhausted of her or not, Pansy had a knack for name-calling. "Some rubbish on how to achieve the highest level of prudishness?"

"Very good, Malfoy," Hermione murmured without looking up. She flicked aside a page of her book as casual as you please. "I'm pleased to know you've learned what a book _is_."

"How can you stand it, Granger?" He asked, sounding genuinely curious. Hermione quashed the instinct to ask him what he meant and instead tried to refocus on her reading.

She could feel her insides writhing, and a sensation like her blood vibrating awake quaked through her.

"How can you stand knowing how your presence alone is an insult to these walls?" He gestured around him even though she wasn't looking; he could tell that her peripheral was focused entirely on him. "If I were you, I'd feel as if I were burning alive. I don't see how you handle that. Are you really so ignorant that you can't feel it? That's the only explanation I can think of – you're simply too stupid to see yourself for what you are – just something to be morbidly interested in."

Hermione snapped her book shut and met his eyes, and he was surprised to find no real anger there, only copious amounts of annoyance and vexation.

"Do you just wake up in a foul mood, Malfoy?" She asked, and it was her turn to seem curious.

"Not exactly," He replied easily, his lip curling. "It's just that seeing you around greatly offends my spirit."

Hermione snorted with humorless laughter. "I wasn't aware you had one of those." She said. "But I'll let you in on a solution, Malfoy: just go away. You don't have to look at me, you could walk right out of this hall and be swallowed up by an opening to the pit of hell. Or you could try and have a nice day. I really don't care, Malfoy."

Instead of leaving, Malfoy sat down with force right next to her. He leaned back with his elbows on the table, trying to catch her eye again.

Hermione huffed a sigh. "Well, if you insist on torturing yourself with my vile presence, that's perfectly fine," she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "Just don't involve me in it."

Draco wasn't quite sure what he was hoping to accomplish himself, but he had a need to get under her skin and excite a proper reaction from her. Part of him knew he was lashing out at her, and he didn't care. If anyone deserved it, it was this girl – the epicenter of all things revolting.

"Why aren't your little friends here?" He asked, and was pleased to see Hermione glance up at him with befuddlement.

"Does it matter?" She said simply, frowning now.

Draco shrugged. "Not particularly." He said, "I only wondered why they aren't trying to shroud you in all their heroics. I would have expected the pauper to stay, at the very least – even if he is shagging that poodle he calls his girlfriend."

Hermione scowled at him and he raised his eyebrows.

"I don't need their protection." She replied, and already Draco could see that flare of anger starting to toss restlessly in her eyes. "I'm only doing what I was asked, and besides, there's no reason to make them suffer your poisonous proximity seeing as you aren't much of a threat anyway."

Hermione suppressed a grin as Malfoy bristled. Something she'd learned from years of observation was that Malfoy abhorred even a hint of underestimation.

"You only say that because you've got no clue how dangerous I am to you, Mudblood." Malfoy sneered, and Hermione felt her face redden.

"And what's that supposed to mean?" She asked with her chin set.

Malfoy feigned an air of mysteriousness. "Let's just say I'm that last person someone like you would want to stumble on alone."

"You know," she said, suddenly turning her body to face him fully as she gathered her papers and shoved her book back into her messenger bag. "The more you go on about how foreboding you are, the more pathetic and sniveling you look."

She settled a gaze of pure contempt over him, and Malfoy found himself for a moment taken in by the look in her eyes. He seemed to read something in them beyond the anger. Was it pity? Or was it simply the usual disgust? Either way, he suddenly began wondering what it would be like to wipe that look straight from her face and change the expression there into something else. Into _what,_ he couldn't say, but he wanted to shy away from the one she wore now. It unsettled him. Not enough the he felt himself recoil, but enough so that he knew he would think of it again later on, when he was alone.

It had been only a little over an hour since the children had flocked to the hall, and already the enchanted ceiling was showing a clearing in the sky, as if doing Hermione a personal favor. The color of it was more of a pronounced blue, with what little clouds that were left slowly filtering away. Hermione glanced up at it for a second or two, seeming to deliberate, and Draco watched with knitted brows as she turned her attention back to him.

"Just to make things clear Malfoy," she said, "Whatever it was you were hoping to get from me, you haven't got it. I'm leaving now. The weather will be fine, the children will be fine, and frankly, I can't stand being so close to you." Her eyes flicked down to the distance between them, a mere foot, maybe more, and Draco felt his defenses rise as he wondered why he'd even thought to sit by her in the first place. Simultaneously he was cursing himself for allowing her to be the one to feel disgust at their proximity.

Hermione rose to leave and Malfoy initially made no move to stop her. "I'll leave you and Padma to release the children." She said, not even thinking of how angry the Professor might be, or if her actions could be considered abandoning her post. Instead of thinking, she let her eyes bore down at Malfoy, and the first thing that came to her mind when she met his eyes was what immediately came barreling from her mouth, like boulders wreaking havoc down the side of a jagged mountain. "You're so… Unbelievably _pathetic,_ Malfoy."

His mouth hung open slightly as she turned and strode away from him. Unlike this morning he could hear the frustration in her steps, but instead of feeling vindicated by it, it infuriated him even further. He'd come over to ruin her day, and somehow he was convinced that he'd only succeeded in pushing his own deeper into the sewers.

He resisted the urge to call her back, the word "Mudblood" hanging from his lips, and instead got clumsily to his feet and bounded after her, catching her by the elbow just beyond the doors to the main corridor. He spun her around to face him, his brain working furiously to think of something biting to say to her, something that he hadn't said before, something she wouldn't just roll her eyes at. Nothing came; and for several seconds he just restrained her there, and she was too shocked to even register how he gripped her.

He sputtered suddenly, which seemed to bring Hermione back to herself. "You – You can't…" he stammered, and as if she could tell it would piss him off more than anything else, she rolled her eyes with a puff of laughter escaped her parted lips. She made to jerk her arm away from him, and he only tightened his grip even further in response.

A moan of surprise fluttered from her mouth as he jerked her closer to keep her from walking away, but he could also hear distinct notes of pain. And suddenly he was aware of his fingers, digging into the soft flesh of her arm, and his first instinct was to release her. He unclenched his hand rather gently, and ran it through his hair.

Then she was in his face. "What is your bloody _problem_ , Malfoy?" She was shouting now, and she was once again doing that insufferable thing where she took a few forceful steps forward, causing him to back up and stumble. "Are you really sure you want to keep prodding me Malfoy?" She questioned, half-hysterically. "Because eventually I _will_ rise to the occasion, and I'm warning you now that you won't like it! That's _twice_ today you've dumped all of your atrocious caprices on me, and I won't have it, Malfoy, I won't!"

Her voice dropped significantly, into something barely more than a murmur as her gaze trailed away from him, almost absent-mindedly. "Don't you think I've had enough?"

Draco was literally at a loss for words, even actions. It seemed that the weight of all the days that had passed since his father's failure had decided that now was the right time to befuddle his mind. What _was_ he doing? Why waste his energy on the Mudblood, who had hardly ever registered as a blip on his radar before? Usually it was Potter he hated with a vengeance, not that he even had the time or energy to go wasting on Potter, either.

He realized that he had begun to allow himself to be distracted. Moreover, he had quite literally jumped into distraction willingly.

"Ah, Miss Granger," a warm voice reached Hermione's ears, and she glanced up at the staircase to see Dumbledore taking them down to where she stood, mere inches away from Malfoy, who looked as though he was solving complex mathematical equations in his mind. He slowly tore his gaze away from Granger to Dumbledore a look of confusion and anger etched over his face. "Good afternoon to you – and to you Mr. Malfoy. I was just coming to relieve you of your duties. It seems the skies have been sending false alarms."

"Hello Professor," said Hermione, instantly recovering herself and stepping back from Malfoy. "Yes – I'd noticed. I was just on my way to find Professor McGonagall."

"Well it seems that both of us are finding ourselves in one of those odd circumstances where our actions are pointless." Dumbledore mused. "I am, however, glad that I caught you Miss Granger. If you wouldn't mind cutting your conversation with Mr. Malfoy a little short, I would like a quick word."

Hermione's cheeks grew pink, feeling as if she had indeed been caught. She wondered if Dumbledore intended to lecture her about leaving her post, letting her responsibility go. _Not that he needs to,_ she thought wearily.

Dumbledore assessed Hermione's silence; he looked between Draco and Miss Granger with a curious expression on his face, before quickly masking it and giving her a sanguine smile. He was quite sure that he had just interrupted something that may have been vastly interesting.

Collecting her sense of decorum, Hermione mumbled, "Of course, Professor." As she met Dumbledore at the foot of the stairs, she threw one last withering glance at Malfoy over her shoulder, unable to ignore the dull flares on soreness trickling up her arm.

"Mr. Malfoy, please alert Miss Patil that you are both free to go, once you've dismissed the children."

Malfoy simply seethed, and Dumbledore turned away, apparently uncaring.

"If you'll follow me to my office, Miss Granger," he began, leading Hermione back the way he had come. "I believe a little privacy would suit our conversation better."

Hermione trailed behind him meekly, reddening once more when Dumbledore said over his shoulder, "Don't worry, Miss Granger, as you so often do. You are not in any trouble. I simply have a few questions for you."

Past her embarrassment at having been read so well, she wondered violently what sort of questions Dumbledore would have for _her._

* * *

 **A/N –**

So there you have it! Chapter three of All Things Questionable. I know it may not seem like it, but I know _exactly_ where I'm going with the plot. Don't worry, once the ball really starts to roll, there'll be no stopping it!

I'd like to thank the lovely followers of my story for giving these first few chapters a shot. I tried to write a little more content this time, just because I rather thought the first two installments were much too short. I don't know if this is too long, but hey, I'm finding my rhythm! Anyway, if any of you have anything you'd like to note, any advice or critiques on the writing thus far, feel free to let me know.

Your Truly,

Emma Perry


	4. Everyone Lies, Apparently

Chapter Four -

Hermione couldn't remember having ever been to the Headmaster's office before. She was sure that she must have stepped foot inside it at least once in the past five or six years, but no such memory came to mind. That probably had something to do with the mounting sense of dreadful anticipation that seemed to escalate with each moment that passed.

"You are not in any trouble." Dumbledore had told her as he led her here only minutes ago, and Hermione tried to keep that assurance in mind as the Headmaster offered her the seat across from his own staple chintz armchair.

"Just give me one moment before we begin, Miss Granger." Dumbledore said as he took his own seat facing her. "Lately I feel more and more that I need to collect my thoughts before I can converse properly."

"Take all the time you need, Professor." Hermione said quickly, and Dumbledore inclined his head towards her once before closing his eyes and creating a steeple with his fingers before his face.

Hermione wished Professor Dumbledore would get on with it. She wanted only one sentence of brief explanation at least, to release the tension that had built up like the pressure of that unstable, frightful boiler from _The Shining_. But slowly enough she began to forget her worries as she studied the positively fatigued countenance of the man in front of her.

His eyes were still closed, so she could read no impression from _them,_ but it appeared that it wasn't necessary to see them at all; the weariness was obvious. Whether it had been the result of a gradual process, or some particular, heavy thing was weighing on his shoulders, Hermione could not have said, but suddenly Dumbledore looked very much his age.

And then, there was that deadened hand, the skin that stretched over its bones so black it almost glistened. Something stronger than the usual alarm that kicked Hermione's instincts into high gear began to sound through her mind at the sight of it. Anyone would have questioned the Professor's well-being – would wonder how on _Earth_ he'd managed to claim such an injury once they laid eyes on that shriveled, glistening hand.

Hermione, however, registered somewhere in the back of her mind that Dumbledore's blackened hand was no mere injury. In fact, some spark of intuition was currently taking its opportunity to whisper that the hand was a _symptom_ of some malformation, some horrible mutation, that had taken hold of him. As strong as Hermione knew he was, and with all the faith she held in him, she couldn't fight down the worry at such a thought.

She'd been staring at his hand for quite some time, a look of puzzled concentration pulling at her features, before she finally realized that Dumbledore had opened his eyes. He studied her over his tented fingers, but Hermione had no time to feel abashed; she was caught in the vivid cerulean of his eyes, highlighted from the gentle, clean rays of the sun that fell at a slant upon his desk. There was a moment – a fleeting moment – but it _had_ been there – in which she was sure that they had carried a silent conversation. The moment passed, that brief connection of understandings vaporized into the air as though it had never happened. Hermione was left only with a mild feeling that Dumbledore's hand, and whatever had happened to cause it, was not to be discussed between them. She even got the impression that Dumbledore would rather have her ignore that particular elephant entirely.

"You must be wondering why I asked you to lend me a bit of your time," Dumbledore said quietly. "I assure you I have not requested such a favor lightly."

"Not at all, Professor Dumbledore." Said Hermione, unable to think of anything more to say.

"Ah, you would prefer that I just get on with it then?" his eyes smiled at Hermione over his spectacles, and she tried not to squirm. "I see. Well, Miss Granger, the truth is I am still a little hesitant to begin…"

Hermione waited as patiently as she could, trying to force down the urge to prompt him forward.

"Let me ask you this, first," Dumbledore suddenly spoke. "Has Harry come to you with any news? Has he told you anything at all about what I recently requested of him?"

Hermione's lips parted somewhat in surprise.

This was about Harry? Professor Dumbledore had never approached her _personally_ about matters between Harry and himself, and for whatever reason, the fact that he was doing so now caused a flash-flood of anxiety to churn in her stomach, mixing into a vile concoction with a feeling of… premonition – as her intuition spoke up in the back of her mind once more. It was a jarring feeling – so much so that Hermione jotted it down mentally, to think on it later.

"You look confused." Said Dumbledore with a benign gaze, "So I shall take this as a 'no', am I correct?"

Hermione found her voice. "No, Professor. Harry's mentioned nothing about you, aside from the trip you took him on to recruit Professor Slughorn."

Hermione caught a look of supreme disappointment flicker over his expression, and for once, Dumbledore refrained from hiding it.

"I see," was all he said for quite a while, but Hermione's impatience had all but waned, replaced instead with that insatiable curiosity, sparked by his words. "I had rather hoped Harry would have shared more with you. I assume he hasn't told Mr. Weasley either, then."

"I really couldn't say, sir." Said Hermione, "I'm sure he's shared things with Ron before that he hasn't told me."

Professor Dumbledore nodded thoughtfully.

"Professor, May I –

"Ask me something?" the first hint of his usual sparkle revealed itself in Dumbledore's eye, and Hermione nodded. "By all means, Miss Granger. I welcome any questions you may have for me, though I do not make promises that you will receive a satisfactory answer to them all. Perhaps it would even help to move the conversation along."

"What were you hoping Harry would tell me?" she asked.

"Ah, yes." Dumbledore chuckled. "I suppose that _would_ be the question, wouldn't it? I apologize if I seem a little cryptic today, Miss Granger. I – like the weather – seem to be all over the place."

Dumbledore paused, and Hermione allowed him the time to think.

"As I left Harry at the Burrow, I asked him to consider taking private lessons from me throughout the duration of the term." Dumbledore began. "I asked him because there are matters of great importance that Harry _must_ learn while there is time enough. I also advised Harry that to tell Mr. Weasley and yourself of his lessons with me would be a wise move to make. But, as you and I have come to discover, he has not."

"Is it so important?" Hermione asked quietly. "For Ron and me to know, I mean."

"Yes, Miss Granger. Your involvement, as well as Mr. Weasley's, is more important to this cause than I can express." Dumbledore straightened his spectacles and leaned forward. "Let me be more clear: it is not my intention to keep things from Harry, but before we traverse any further into this discussion, I must ask you not to tell Harry that you have spoken of such matters with me."

"I won't," Hermione said immediately, fighting down the bubble of guilt that manifested in her chest. Dumbledore was the one person in the world she trusted so blindly, perhaps even more than she trusted herself. He gave her a mildly surprised look, perhaps having been ready to explain himself. "I know you wouldn't ask unless it was necessary." Hermione offered.

"I am pleased you understand." He replied. "You see, as many conversations as I have had with Harry, as many things as I have watched him experience, Harry still seems rather bent on keeping things to himself. He trusts people, of course – he trusts you and Mr. Weasley, I daresay, with his life – but he cannot seem to reach out for help when he needs it…"

"He's got a major hero complex." Hermione agreed, smiling dryly, and Dumbledore smiled. He touched the tip of his finger to his nose.

"Precisely, Miss Granger," Dumbledore said. "I couldn't have summed it up better myself. So – then – you must be able to infer what the next favor is that I require of you?"

Hermione hesitated a moment before answering, pursing her lips in concentration. "You'll need me to… keep doing what I'm doing?" She said uncertainly, shrugging rather lamely.

"Very good." Dumbledore inclined his head – a gesture of approval. "I will need you to keep your senses sharp. Seek his confidence, and hold no resentments, even if it takes some time before Harry allows you to have it.

"You are exceedingly clever, Hermione," he began again, and Hermione was warmed by the familiarity in the Professor's voice. "You have to sense how important your role is in the future of our world."

Hermione frowned at those words, but said nothing, allowing Dumbledore to continue as she lapsed into thoughtful silence.

"I believe you and Harry became friends through more than chance alone. He will need you as surely as he needed the love of his mother to protect him from Voldemort. It is my hope that Harry will confide in you – when, I couldn't say. But I have faith in him, and when he does come to you, he will need your point of view, your intelligence, and your ingenuity."

"Professor," Hermione began, licking her lips. "May I ask – why you won't just tell me yourself? You could explain it all to me, probably more effectively than Harry could… Wouldn't I be of more use that way?"

"Excellent question," Dumbledore's eyes took on that penetrating quality, making them come alive and hold Hermione's attention. "The time is coming for Harry to guide himself. Sooner or later he will have to forge his own path, and he will only succeed if he finds a way to trust his counterparts. As of now, Harry's instincts lead him to isolate himself, certain that he is the only one who not only should carry such burdens, but also the only one _capable_ of it.

"I would not be doing him any favors by arranging Harry's decisions for him, although – forgive me – I do trust my own judgement enough to know where to push for results." Dumbledore sighed, gazing at Hermione quite solemnly over his half-moon spectacles. "Harry must come to you on his own, and it must be his decision as to what and how much he divulges to you and Mr. Weasley. My only object for this conversation was to put you on your toes; I only want to be sure that someone like yourself understands the magnitude of the events that should soon start to unfold."

He finished his last sentence with an air of definite finality, straightening up in his arm chair and unclasping his hands. Hermione understood that it was time for her to go, and she rose uncertainly, feeling as if Dumbledore had handed her a binder full of riddles to solve. She wondered if this was how Harry felt after his many conversations with the Headmaster.

She made her way through the office slowly, glancing around at all the portraits of the previous Headmasters and mistresses. She would have sworn that Armando Dippet had his eye – barely open under its lid – trained on her, and the great snore which erupted from his slackened mouth seemed too well-practiced. She was curious as to why the portraits bothered to hide their snooping, and simultaneously she wondered what sort of secrets they'd all come to know over the years stuck up on that wall.

As she reached the Headmaster's door, she turned around quickly, a question perched on her lips.

He looked up at her with a peaceful smile.

"Yes, Hermione?"

"Have you spoken to Ron about anything of this?"

"I have not."

"Will you?" she asked.

"I doubt that very much." He said, and as Hermione was about to ask why, he explained, "Mr. Weasley has the unfortunate proclivity for being too truthful when it is wise to practice discretion."

A smile tugged at the corners of Hermione's lips, and Dumbledore matched it.

"In other words, he's got a fat mouth." She supplied.

"The fattest."

As the door snapped shut behind her, Dumbledore released a soft chuckle to himself, feeling as though very few girls deserved to smile as much as Hermione Granger did.

* * *

A few days passed in which nothing more eventful occurred, other than Seamus Finnigan accidentally causing his raven (which he was supposed to be silencing) to explode in a puff of smoke and cascading feathers during one unfortunate Charms lesson.

Harry, Ron, and Hermione went about much as they always had; only occasionally broaching the topic of Voldemort and what catastrophes might be burgeoning through the world outside the Hogwarts walls. However, more and more the subject seemed to expand as a taboo, as Harry gave off an increasing inclination towards avoiding it completely. Both Hermione and Ron felt it, that lengthening distance which seemed to power forward from Harry.

Ron was more baffled than anything else, and as such Hermione had spent hours altogether trying to reason him away from starting a confrontation. More than once she considered telling Ron the truth about her meeting with the Headmaster. Dumbledore hadn't, after all, _explicitly_ told Hermione not to mention their conversation… Yet he had said more than enough to imply he found it unwise that Ron should know anything for the time being. And, all in all, Hermione had to agree. Sometimes as she replayed the conversation with Dumbledore in her head, she began to feel that there was nothing particularly noteworthy about the things Dumbledore had to say.

He'd simply told her about his giving lessons to Harry, and that Hermione should be useful in Harry's endeavors, his learning. Harry had been given private lessons before, after all, she thought, remembering Harry's cataclysmic Occlumency lessons with Professor Snape. But even then Harry had seemed to find all of Hermione's efforts to help and encourage him little more than a nuisance. She believed in Dumbledore's extraordinary intuition – had complete faith in his wisdom – but in this case she wondered whether or not Dumbledore's confidence in her would be pointless in the end.

Besides, she had always been there for Harry when he needed her. She'd been there even when he didn't particularly _want_ her, for Heaven's sake. As much as Hermione always valued Dumbledore's council, she honestly felt that he needn't have told her to be ready and encouraging for Harry, if and when Harry asked for it.

Nearly a week had passed since that unexpected encounter, and as Thursday dawned with ominous clouds that depressed even the sun itself, Hermione flung herself onto her usual spot at the Gryffindor table.

Ron and Lavender were sitting about a foot apart, too tired apparently even for snogging. Ginny had her cloak bunched up on the table in front of her, her face burrowed so far into the fabric that Hermione wondered how she was able to keep breathing. Part of her was comforted by the fatigued haze that seemed to have fallen over the Great Hall; she was glad to know that she wasn't the only one who'd felt like it had been an especially hard week. The staff table alone seemed immune. The only sounds of conversation flowed exclusively from that area as they talked amongst themselves and ate their breakfast with minds free from the fog of sleepiness.

"What've we got today?" Ron asked no one in particular, stifling a yawn that would have shaken the branches of the Whomping Willow against its will.

"Divination, Charms, and Transfiguration this morning," Harry listed in a droning voice. "After lunch we've got double Potions with the Slytherins and then a free period."

Hermione sighed so heavily that Harry broke off to look at her. "What?" He asked.

"I'm just not in the mood to be in such close quarters with the Slytherin's for two bloody hours."

Harry and Ron exchanged looks of mild surprise.

"Who knew you were capable of such coarse language?" Ron grinned, his eyebrows nearly obscured by the sweep of bright red hair sweeping over his forehead. "What's got you so tense, Hermione?"

"I'm only tired," she said, managing to crush the defensive tone in her voice.

The fact was that Hermione was _ragged._ Last year she'd thought O.W.L.s had been a stress-inducing prospect, but it was nothing compared to the N.E.W.T-level material the professors were ladling onto their plates. Perhaps Harry and Ron couldn't feel the full extent of all the work they'd been given, but that was only because they put as little effort as possible into every assignment passed to them. Plus, she admitted to herself (despite the nagging feeling of guilt that came from being so… judgy), they did sort of ride on her coattails. They seemed completely oblivious to the fact that _she_ was the one doing all the research and all the work to fill the gaps they so willingly left in their own work.

 _Then again_ , she reminded herself, _you are the one who lets them slack._

Her eyes roamed about the Hall, falling upon anyone she thought might commiserate with her. There was always Padma Patil, always Cho Chang and Benjamin Knightley. There was even Neville Longbottom whose marks were pretty mediocre, but he never gave up trying. She sought out Draco Malfoy and, as she'd expected, his complexion (which was already pretty much as pale as one's complexion could get) was verging on sallow. He was currently dragging his spoon through a bowl of oatmeal, scowling at the contents as if they were whispering snide remarks at him.

The sight of him alone made Hermione grimace; lately Malfoy had apparently decided to increase his douche-page quotient, and it all seemed directed towards her in particular. The only reason for such an increase that Hermione could think was that she was so often alone now. Harry and Ron were always either at the pitch for hours on end, or holed up in Gryffindor tower, trying to squeeze out any amount of coursework they could in the final moments before it was due. Every night Hermione had to stand with the other Prefects at the entrance to the hall, waiting to dismiss her House, and every night Malfoy happened to find his way near her and make her suffer in one way or another. She chalked it up to his missing the opportunity to force his evil nature down the throats of his two more preferred enemies, and there was very little she could do about it. She'd often had to fight against her own blind will not to jinx him and stomp on Malfoy's nose as he had done to Harry on the night of the Sorting ceremony. Luckily for Malfoy, it took quite a bit to push Hermione to that sort of dark place.

At this point Hermione only prayed that Malfoy was too tired to rile anyone up today, even if the sight of Harry and Ron was tempting. If he was even half as wiped-out as she was, it was a reasonable hope.

She managed to flow through her day with enough ease; not once had she allowed the snares of sleepiness to make her eyelids droop. She was even able to take the proper sort of notes for each class, lengthy and detailed, the way she liked them.

When lunch came she felt considerably better, as if she'd only needed to let her brain warm up a little. The only noteworthy occurrence was Harry's absence. Ginny, coming alone, had no clue where he was. It wasn't until Hermione and Ron (Lavender in tow) began to make their way towards the dungeon that Harry caught up with them, out of breath and slightly crazed-looking.

"I'll need you to tell Slughorn I won't make it to class today." Harry panted. "McGonagall's just found me – she said Dumbledore asked to see me."

Hermione studied him casually. She saw relief in his face, and something like hope.

"What do you reckon that's about?" Ron asked, and broke off to groan in pain as Lavender locked her arms around his middle and squeezed. He gave her a quick peck on the forehead as if to satisfy her, but kept his attention on Harry.

"No idea," Harry said with an affected shrug. "Whatever it is, it's gotten me out of two hours in that dungeon."

"Can I borrow your book, Harry?" Ron asked, face positively gleaming with hope.

"I don't have it on me, mate." Harry lied. He always carried the Prince's book on him, but he'd become just a little possessive of the thing now.

Ron's face promptly crumpled, and Lavender joined in, "Actually, I think the dungeon is rather more lovely since Professor Slughorn took over. I quite like all those wall hangings he's got." She looked at Ron curiously. "Not that anyone would think he's got taste, by the look of him."

Hermione snorted. "Slughorn tries too hard."

Lavender, for a moment, looked as if she'd been insulted.

* * *

During the first handful of his years at Hogwarts, Draco had quite liked the dungeon. Potions happened to be his favorite subject, and it still was, only as time went on and Draco aged and became privy to all sorts of things he'd only partially understood as a child, he found himself wanting to draw away from such an explicitly melancholy place. And then, as he'd grown, he'd lost quite a bit of respect for the Potions Master, Severus Snape. That blustering, red-faced git – Slughorn – was the Master now, but that didn't matter; it made no difference. Even the annoyingly jovial Slughorn couldn't take away from the gloom of the dungeon.

Draco could remember being partial to the fumes that rose from the surrounding cauldrons, how he could get lost in his work and forget that other students were even manning them. The vapors, hanging thick and heavy in the air, always gave him a fierce sense that hard work was being done. Those had been brighter days, however, even if they had only seemed so because he was still young enough to feel that safety was a real thing.

Now, as Crabbe and Goyle flanked him on either side of his work-space, the fumes only served to muss his hair and create a sticky film on his skin. He hooked a finger in the collar of his shirt, pulling it away from his neck and trying to calm the feeling of suffocation from his chest. He could have done with some proper ventilation, but apparently that was simply out of the question.

Once again he'd stumbled his way through the duration of the class, his Befuddlement Draught earning him nothing more than an indifferent shrug from Slughorn. He'd at least been able to crack a smile, while watching Neville Longbottom's face pinch with mortification as Slughorn took a look into his cauldron. Neville's draught had reached the same consistency of the oatmeal Draco had eaten for breakfast earlier in the morning as Slughorn shook his head slowly and mournfully over the dense concoction. Then there was also the absence of Potter's bile-inducing face to brighten the prospect a little more.

Of course, Potter not being present resulted in Hermione Granger's stepping into the look-at-me spotlight, and Draco felt himself sneer automatically in disgust as the Mudblood practically oozed with pride over Slughorn's praise.

" _Perfect_ transparency, Miss Granger, I do say!" said the great arse, wagging one meaty finger at her and bouncing on his toes, looking appreciatively into Granger's cauldron. "Yes, my dear girl –

He chuckled fondly, making Draco's spit glands kick into overdrive with the urge to dry-heave.

"You certainly give Mr. Potter a run for his money, don't you? Quite the pair of stars I've got in this lot, eh?"

Hermione's cheeks simmered with a faint pink blush. "Thank you, professor. I rather enjoyed the lesson today."

Slughorn positively beamed down at her, and Draco wondered how it failed to melt the skin from her face, kissing his backside in such a way. When he spoke, his tone was full of the modesty that was untraceable on his expression.

"Yes, well – I do pride myself on my efforts to broaden the minds of the young. There's not a more important job, I always say!" Slughorn gushed, and now his voice had slightly elevated to address the entire class. "I do hope I bring what is due to the table for my subject. I wish for you all to see the value in brewing and creating potions. What isn't there to love, after all? With the right ingredients, one can make anything! from Polyjuice potion to Sleekeazy's Hair Potion – really, the possibilities are endless…" Slughorn's spur of the moment diatribe went on, punctuated only by the sneering voice of Malfoy.

"Lord knows you could use some of _that_ , Granger," he drawled, so low that Hermione only just heard him. "Although you may find it hard to brew enough, seeing as you'd probably need _vats_ to tame that hellish labyrinth atop your inflated head."

He had said it on pure instinct, wishing desperately to knock the Mudblood down a few pegs. He knew he could have been much more creative; Hermione's hair had been an arrow in his quiver for the past six years, and, it was true that it had certainly calmed quite a bit over time. Yet the jab had been offered to him on a silver platter by Slughorn himself, and it was still enough to get the Slytherin's shaking in silent laughter. Pansy's lower lip was safely lodged under her teeth to keep from shrieking; even she knew she had the sort of laugh that bites.

Hermione's eyes narrowed by a fraction of an inch, but otherwise she gave no indication that she heard him. She maintained her attention on Slughorn who was, of course, back on the subject of her brilliance once more.

"Really, Miss Granger, I must applaud you. It is so rare that a student comes under my wing as willing to learn as you and Mr. Potter seem to be. Your consistency is remarkable, as well, although I know it is early still in the term." He continued, "Perhaps you would consider tutoring some of the other… less naturally gifted students." His bleary eyes slid over to Neville, who promptly sank back in to the blush he'd managed to fight off only moments ago.

Before he could go on, Hermione cut in, loud enough to be heard by everyone. "I agree, professor, I would love nothing more than to lend my helping hand. In fact," she pivoted her head in Draco's direction, staring at him openly and pointedly. He felt himself recoil in surprise, suddenly very aware of everyone's attention shifting to him. "Don't you think Mal – Draco would benefit exceedingly from a few extra lessons? I've noticed that he struggles so _very_ hard, and yet he doesn't seem to get any better. I really believe he could use a little more attention. He's the sort of boy who needs guidance, you know."

Draco's mouth fell open in shocked outrage, but no words came out. She was looking at him with wide, innocently sympathetic eyes, the only hint of humor to give her away splashed across her mouth, which she pressed into a tight line that practically glowed with triumph. Weasley sank his face in his hands, the tremors from his laughter not missed by Draco. The Gryffindors vibrated with badly disguised laughter as well, and the Slytherins stared at him silently, as though they would laugh if not afraid of drawing attention to themselves. Even Crabbe and Goyle remained quiet, without their usual round of threatening gestures in his defense. They wouldn't look at him, and Draco was met with a sneaking suspicion that this change was because his father's blunder at the Ministry had cost him a healthy portion of the power he'd worked so hard to cultivate.

Fury bubbled throughout his veins like a hot infection, and what was more – the final nail in her own coffin – Draco could tell Granger knew it, she just didn't care.

She slowly turned to face Slughorn again, her smug eyes only sliding from his at the last moment as Slughorn mumbled, "Well, my dear, I certainly would not have called the boy out in such a way – although that isn't to say you're wrong…"

Malfoy went from a simmer to a rolling boil.

* * *

Hermione fully expected to be confronted by a gaggle of angry Slytherin the moment she exited the dungeon, but no one stood waiting, and there wasn't even a sign of Malfoy. By the time she, Ron, and Lavender reached level ground, the light from the windows punched into the wall falling on them in comforting strokes, she felt comfortable enough to split off from them. She promised her friends to see them at dinner as they headed up in the direction towards the tower. Hermione continued down the main corridor, turning East at the portrait of Nosferatu (who glared at her with the appropriate amount of crazed bloodlust), towards the library.

When she was only feet from the entrance, someone stepped out from one of the window coves in the wall and came up behind her, stopping so fast and so close that Hermione felt the suction of wind from the empty air around her suddenly becoming occupied. She sucked in a good breath – good enough to shatter the ears of anyone within a mile's radius – and whirled around.

Draco Malfoy clamped one hand over her mouth, the other hand reaching back to anchor her head in place.

"Think that was funny, did you?" He clipped, so close to her face that his breath would have fogged her glasses if she'd happened to wear any. "Let me guess, you thought you could have a go at me because your little friends were with you for once? Look around, Granger. There's no one here now."

He tightened his grip in her hair, pulling her face up closer to his. Just then, with the glazed fury in his eyes, Hermione had her first real taste of fear from Malfoy.

"I knew you'd come here, too." He smirked. "You're so bloody predictable."

Hermione harnessed her fear and used it to drive the heel of her penny loafers into his toes as hard as she could. His eyes flew wide in pain and he stepped back, at which point she aimed a healthy kick to his shin. He stumbled now, doubled-over to grasp his calf.

" _Furnunculus!_ " She cried, whipping out her wand and brandishing it in his direction.

Draco rolled sideways onto the ground, and the spell hit the wall he'd been in front of with a forceful _bong_. He tried to Stun her, but Hermione blocked it with a hasty squeal of, " _Protego!"_

Before he could think twice, she shouted a disarming spell and Draco watched in open-mouthed horror as his wand leaped from his hand and spiraled through the air, seemingly in slow motion. Hermione caught it with little effort, and the grin of triumph that blazed in her eyes quite literally made Draco hate her.

"Perhaps if you weren't such an incorrigible little rat," she said, managing somehow managing to spit her words with an air of sweetness that needled Draco's skin. "That embarrassing scene may never have happened."

"How _dare_ you touch my property, you vile little Mu…" He made a grab for his wand, but in a blinding motion of speed Hermione closed the distance between them, his own wand jabbing painfully into his ribcage. She turned her face up to his and his heart actually went through a sensation of free-falling; her eyes scorched so brazenly into his. He'd never seen Granger look so outraged, not even that time she'd called him a cockroach and punched him in the face.

 _I swear, if she hits me,_ was the one clear thought in all the incoherent babbling of his mind. _I'll bloody lose it if she does, so help me…_

"What was that, Malfoy?" she asked, her tone a cocktail of casual insanity. "Go on, finish your sentence."

Draco, unable to resist the challenge, croaked "Mudblood!"

He instinctively clenched his eyes shut, bracing for Granger's reaction.

A few moments passed in which nothing happened. Hermione was breathing rather heavily, but that was about it. Draco popped one eye open and a great flood of relief passed through him. She still looked more than a little mad - with her eyebrows set over the brightest, most intense eyes Draco had ever seen on a person, her jaw clenching hard enough that he could see the muscle twitching in the stony set of her mouth – but now it was the sort of mad expression that implied she was having some kind of inner-battle with herself. For the first time Draco found himself counting on Granger's iron will, her fierce sense of self-control. He would have hexed her to oblivion, if he'd gotten the chance, but he'd rather her be the bigger person, even if she was a Mudblood.

Eventually Hermione expelled one final heave of breath and stepped away from him. He was so surprised that he slid down the stone wall, not caring that she was looking down her nose at him this way.

"Tell me what your problem is," Hermione said sternly. "And think about your answer. Quite a bit is riding on it, Malfoy."

Draco immediately shook his head, slowly and deliberately.

"I certainly will _not."_ Malfoy said, and Hermione could see with some disappointment that he meant it. Here she was, giving Draco Malfoy an opening to show some evidence of humanity. She shouldn't have been disappointed by his refusal to take it, she should have expected it. "This isn't tea-time, Granger. You and I have nothing to discuss and I won't be playing along with any of your sick games."

Hermione chuckled airily, muttering, "I'm the one playing games, am I?" She smiled at him then, as if he were simply being silly. Draco felt his ears redden. "Remind me again who initiated this little attack?" she asked.

"I needn't put up with this." Malfoy snapped, ears still ringing. "Just take your revenge and be done with it."

The simple truth was that Hermione had quite lost the urge to do anything. His face just looked so gaunt. His eyes were almost drooping with visible exhaustion, and he looked like someone who'd lain awake for nights on end with the beam of a flashlight pointed straight into his face. She felt a little sorry for him, in actuality, and realized she couldn't help the sentiment, no matter how sickening it felt on her; that was simply the way she was wired.

Draco felt sure that a flash of concern danced its way through her features, but before he had the time to feel indignant about it, she was kneeling in front of him, her face back to indifferent stone. He looked at his wand in her hand warily, but she only held it firmly out of his reach.

"I want you to leave me alone." She began, sounding as though she were striking a deal on some particularly choice piece of real estate with him. "I can't begin to imagine why you've been taking all your petty grievances out on me and, as you refuse to tell me yourself, I really don't care. But your foul moods have got to find another outlet, because I can't – I _won't_ – put up with them any longer."

Malfoy was only silent, and Hermione felt exasperation streak through her spirit.

"Do you know…" she trailed off for a moment and her eyes left his face, leaving him free to examine the weather patterns there, "Whatever you do… Your friends follow your lead. If you even consider them _friends,_ that is. For the past week you've been so much worse than usual, and now, so is every other Slytherin." Draco couldn't help but notice the sudden sadness that developed around her.

"And it all feels like it's being directed towards me." Hermione looked back at him. "I'm sure it is, considering how deeply you despise me." She was standing over him again. "I know you don't care, Malfoy. I'm not even sure why I'm bothering to explain. So I'll put it in a nutshell: You can either promise to leave me be, and make all your ridiculous little followers do the same, or you'll spend the next week in the Hospital Wing. Somehow I don't think you can afford that."

Malfoy narrowed his eyes, decided then and there that such a promise was not to be extorted from him.

"I've told you a million times," he cried, "I'll have no part in your games, Granger."

Hermione scoffed and turned away from him in disgust. Draco immediately sprung to his feet. He seized her arm in one hand and whirled her around, fighting with the other to wrest both wands out of her grasp. She held them behind her body, shielding them from his snatching hand, and he pushed her forward until her back hit the stone wall with much more force than he'd actually intended to use. Hermione cried out sharply, but still she kept the wands clamped in both hands, between her back and the wall.

For a split second Draco's eyes widened in shock, and he'd have released her immediately but for what she said next.

"Learned that from your father, did you?" Malfoy's eyes flashed, but she was too angry herself to really care.

He grasped each of her shoulders roughly with both of his hands, resisting the all but overwhelming urge to shake her and smack the back of her head against the stone.

"Don't _ever_ say a word about my father, Mudblood," he growled.

Hermione spoke through clenched teeth. "Let me go, you arrogant arse!" She met his gaze without flinching, even as he tightened his grip on her shoulders. She was shaking, but he could feel that it was from unbridled anger rather than fear. He couldn't stop the realization of how fragile she felt, and yet completely powerful with all that red energy blazing through her. She shouted at him now, and began to struggle against his restraining hands. "Get your bloody hands off of me, Draco Malfoy!"

Her voice rang through the high ceiling of the corridor, and suddenly it hit Draco how far this conflict had gone. "No more about my father – about my family. Ever." He said, much more evenly now. Hermione felt his hold slacken almost completely, until his hands were just there, hardly any pressure on her skin. "Never speak of them again."

"Then leave me _alone,_ " she countered, her voice low and resonating with force. "And make sure your band of infidels follow your lead."

Draco nodded once, a stiff movement, and subtle, but with it the tension in the air all but dissipated, like an exhaust fan had sucked up every thick column of smoke between them.

"One more condition," Hermione said, and Draco was surprised to see the ghost of a smile play across her lips. He looked at them, hesitating.

"Oh, anything for you," he said, his tone absolutely festooned with sarcasm.

"I'll need you to let me go." She aimed a pointed glance at his hands, still resting on her shoulders. He cleared his throat and took two massive steps backward, smoothing the front of his robes with a look of preserved dignity.

"Right," he said, his mouth dry.

She flashed a curious sort of look at him and held out his wand. She half-expected him to snatch it from her and cradle it as if it were the One Ring, and she almost laughed as he took it from her rather gingerly, using only his thumb and forefinger. Instead of hanging around for a post-feud chat, Hermione moved past him and walked fluidly to the doors, beyond which the library stood waiting.

"Why don't you just give them detention?" Draco called suddenly. Hermione turned back, eyebrows raised. "The people who are giving you a hard time. I mean, you are a Prefect."

Hermione smiled sadly. "I can't very well give an entire House detention, can I?" and then she was gone, the library doors shutting behind her.

* * *

Draco stood in place for a chunk of time, pocketing his wand and thinking over her words. He'd hardly noticed the backlash he'd unleashed upon Granger, but as he sifted through his more recent memories, he realized he'd been around to watch on multiple occasions. He remembered Goyle aiming a spell at her messenger bag, slashing it open and spilling the vast amount of contents ( _well what was she doing, carrying around so many bloody books?_ He thought savagely). And then an image of Pansy chucking one of her pods from the Snargaluff plant she'd conquered at the back of Granger's head (making sure, of course, to puncture it so that its juices would cover her hair) only yesterday passed through his mind's eye. Before he knew it, Draco couldn't count on two hands the amount of times he'd seen Granger singled out as the butt of whatever joke his friends fancied, and that didn't even include the instances that had been initiated by him. He felt stupid; why would he risk drawing so much attention to himself at a time like this?

No matter… He would put a stop to it. He told himself that he would have to end it, if only for the sake of keeping a low profile.

He also gave himself a mental smack to the forehead for how far he'd let things escalate between them only moments ago. What good could possibly come from toying with Dumbledore's foul-blooded little pet?

He imagine – quite unwillingly – the way he'd shoved her forward into the wall. He would have sworn he heard some part of her body crack. The way she'd looked at him, as if she expected little else from the likes of him… That memory made him feel smaller, accompanied by her scathing words, " _learned that from your father, did you?"…_ At least he'd finally come to his senses, relaxed his grip on her, hopefully before he'd caused any evidence, such as bruising. He pictured his hands, little more than resting on her shoulders. He stared at the floor, his eyes boring holes into its surface. His hands, feeling as if they'd fallen asleep, tingled at his sides and he clenched them into fists, before opening them once again and stretching his fingers as far apart as they would go. He brought them up to his face, transfixed for a moment, as if seeking evidence of her on them.

"Draco," Malfoy's head snapped up and his eyes landed on Severus Snape, striding towards him with the hem of his onyx robes swirling around his feet, looking like an apparition of death. "What are you doing here?"

"I suppose I came to read." Draco responded dryly. Instinct moved him to shove his hands down into the pockets of his robes, for whatever reason not wanting Snape to see them.

"I asked you to come to my office once your classes had concluded for the day." Snape said. As he came closer Draco could feel his eyes assessing him. "Did you forget?"

"I haven't got time to speak to you," said Draco. "I've got a mountain of homework, and you tend to drag on."

"There are more important matters than academics this year, Draco, as you well know." Snape said curtly. "It is imperative that we speak."

"So you're what, going to force me?" Draco demanded, his voice growing hot. "You only have a say in my marks for your class. You can't make me seek your bloody council."

"Yes, I am aware of that." Snape said in a bored tone. "I'd rather fancied myself that you would _want_ my council. I may prove to be of use to you in your endeavors."

"What would you know of my _endeavors,_ as you put them?" Draco snapped. "You've got no business prying into my life. Besides, what advice could you possibly have to offer me, for a job you've never succeeded in yourself?"

"I've never attempted the job you've been ordered to carry out." Snape said quietly, his mouth drawn into a thin line.

Draco expelled a frustrated, mocking sigh, and shouldered past Severus, who made no move to stop him. If Draco had been thinking clearly, he would have questioned how Snape knew where to find him, and whether or not he'd been watching the incident unfolding before the Mudblood took solace in the library. As it was, he simply tromped all the way to the Slytherin common room, pride wounded, peace shattered, and hands burning.

* * *

Dinner in the Great Hall produced a much livelier symphony of voices, clattering dishes, and laughter than that morning's breakfast. It seemed that the prospect of the coming Friday – filled with two whole free periods and followed closely by Saturday – was enough to raise the spirits of the dead Hogwarts had so lately been plagued with. Soon enough, the students would settle in to the rigors of school life once again, but for now it was enough that everyone had made it through the first month as well as they had.

As soon as Harry sat down across from them, Ron pelted him with questions.

"Did you see Dumbledore? How did it go? What did he say?" Ron's face was alight with excitement. "Was Fawkes there?"

Hermione shot him a quizzical look which he met with a steady gaze of his own.

"I love that bird. Such a noble thing." He shoveled shepherd's pie into the void that was his mouth.

Lavender dotted kisses along his cheek. "Oh, Ronald, you're so sensitive."

"He only wanted to see how I was handling everything," Harry lied, hating how easily he was able to do it. "He even asked if I wanted to give up captaincy of the team." Hermione raised her eyebrows, somewhat darkly impressed with his quick thinking. Then again, she thought, he probably expected a barrage of inquiries. "And yes, Fawkes was there. He usually is."

Ron's shoulders collapsed a fraction. "Ah, alright then… I suppose any words from Dumbledore are good words." After a moment's hesitation he asked nervously, "You won't give up captaincy, will you?"

"Of course not." Said Harry, "But that doesn't mean it'll be any easier to make the cut than with someone else as Captain. I won't do you any favors, mate, so stay on your toes."

Harry's stomach had turned into a chasm, though his tone was light enough; he hated keeping anything from Ron and Hermione, and especially Ginny, from whom he'd hidden nothing since his second year. Even so, the truth really was pretty unremarkable.

He'd gone into Dumbledore's office expecting his first lesson, but for the better part of an hour Dumbledore had asked polite questions about everything from how he'd felt about his farewell with the Dursleys to how he was handling all this Chosen One bollocks. The lie (or rather, the untruth), stood in his omission of the very last few minutes, when Dumbledore told him to come again next Monday at eight. Harry really had no idea where all of this was leading, but he felt sure that the right thing to do was to go it alone. Sooner or later Harry would need to learn how to stand on his own two feet, after all. How could he expect to drag every one of his friends along with him to the end?

 _Neither can live while the other survives…_

It was always meant to be him. He would have to be the One, and if Dumbledore wanted him to confide everything to his friends, Harry knew it was only because he was worried that Harry couldn't shoulder it all himself. Perhaps he thought Harry too young, too dependent. However, the events of last year, finally culminating in the massive blow-out at the Ministry, had taught Harry an extremely valuable lesson: He could not hide behind the efforts, or rely on the quicker thinking of his friends. He would have to find a way to rise of his own volition if he was ever going to be able to take down the one man only he could defeat.


	5. Realizations Invade, Thoughts Whisper

Chapter Five – Realizations Invade, Thoughts Whisper

Albus Dumbledore sighed through his nostrils and settled back into his chair. By the light of the fire which blazed in his hearth, he examined the malicious glittering that seemed to come from within the stone of the ring he held in his good hand. The symbol on its face was what really interested Dumbledore – the very same symbol he'd used to sign his letters for much of his youth. He'd never actually seen it this way, presented so authentically.

A quiet knock drew him out of his reverie. He straightened up and called for the visitor to enter.

"Ah, Severus," Dumbledore greeted him, and motioned for Snape to take the seat on the other side of the desk, but he gave a slight shake of his head, preferring to stand. "I am glad you've found the time to visit. Although, it seems that you have come here for a reason."

Indeed there was an obvious rigidity to Snape's shoulders, and he began pacing in short, quick lines. "He doesn't trust me, Albus." Snape finally bit out. "He won't give an inch, and I don't expect that to change."

The wrinkles that lined Dumbledore's forehead deepened as he glanced up at Severus from under his brows.

"He needs time." Dumbledore said reasonably, "Draco will come to you of his own volition, Severus. Perhaps it will take a while, but you cannot force it. I imagine that once he has failed a few times, he will seek your council. Draco has _always_ trusted you."

Snape felt his lips twist sardonically. "It has been a very long time since Draco trusted me as he once did." The silence Snape met with frustrated him. "Don't you see, Albus? He will never accept my help. It seems as if he despises me, and has done ever since the outcome of the Triwizard Tournament."

Dumbledore looked for a moment as if he was ready to reply, but Snape went on anyway. "He looks at me as one of them, you know. And despite all of his actions over the years, his words and boasts, Draco wants as far away from the Dark Lord's reach as possible. And to Draco, I am the Dark Lord's right-hand man."

"That may be true," Dumbledore mused. "Perhaps you are right Severus, but you know as well as I that you must remain vigilant… Besides, if Draco continues down this path – if he does not rise above his fear and decides to go through with his task – he will seek the help of Voldemort's right-hand man above that of anyone else… Have you tried to speak with Draco?"

Snape nodded, eyes drawn to the flames which danced in Dumbledore's hearth.

"I am assuming that it did not go well."

He shook his head. "I asked him to come to my office yesterday, and he never showed. I followed him and found him cornering Granger in front of the library. He has become heedless, Albus. He cares not how his actions are perceived."

Snape rather wanted to go on, but Dumbledore silenced him, holding up his right hand. "Did you see what happened between them?"

"Between whom?" Snape swiveled his head around to look at Dumbledore distractedly.

"Between Draco and Miss Granger." Supplied Dumbledore.

"Nothing worth any thought," Snape said hurriedly, anxious to get back on track with the conversation. He described the way Draco had attacked her, how she'd held him by the point of his own wand before he grabbed her and pinned her to the wall. "At the end of it, she'd made him promise to leave her alone as long as she kept her remarks about his family to herself." He finished lamely, feeling rather ridiculous, just then; it struck him as unbecoming to discuss the affairs of hormonal teenagers in such a serious fashion.

"When did this happen?"

"Straight after Potions."

"I see…" was all Dumbledore said for some time. "Forgive me, Severus, for my conjecture… but it seems that Draco has taken more than his usual interest in Miss Granger."

"Is that so surprising? Given her blood, _and_ her relationship to Potter, you can hardly find his behavior odd." Said Snape, struggling to find the thread of conversation Dumbledore had suddenly decided to follow. "What concerns me is that he is acting without thinking. He is drawing attention to himself in the worst way. Half the faculty already believe him tainted by the dark side because of Lucius Malfoy's association, and here is Draco, tormenting a muggle-born Prefect."

"On the surface, there is nothing odd, you are right about that. But," said Dumbledore. "this marks the second time in a week that he has initiated a personal argument with Hermione. He has never done this before; his antagonisms usually fall to the lot of Mr. Potter or Mr. Weasley. Moreover, the only thing his efforts to torment her have resulted in is a mutual agreement."

Snape remained silent, waiting for Dumbledore's point. "How many times have you witnessed Draco negotiate a truce with anyone, Severus? With a muggle-born, no less – as you have pointed out."

Snape resisted the urge to shrug, frustrated beyond words. Dumbledore turned his eyes away.

"Perhaps you do not see it," he said quietly. "Perhaps there is nothing there to see at all… However…" Dumbledore lapsed into a full minute of silence.

Snape tried to be understanding. He was well aware that these frequent pauses would occur for quite a while, until Dumbledore grew more accustomed to his condition. And then it would only get steadily worse.

"Severus, would you do something for me?" Snape quirked a questioning brow, "Speak to Horace for me, see how Draco and Miss Granger are getting by in their Potions. Try to find out if anything in particular happened between them to spur on such a close encounter."

"Would that not appear strange?" Snape asked, his expression suddenly flat.

"Not at all," Dumbledore looked up, slightly bemused. "You are merely the concerned Head of Draco's House. What is strange about that?"

"Yes, to Slughorn that story is all well and good," Snape said, aggravated. "But Draco will see right through it."

"That makes no difference," Said Dumbledore, dismissing the protest. "He will resent you, of course. But somewhere he will know that you are doing it for him."

Snape eventually agreed, trying to remind himself that Dumbledore was seldom misled about anything; he typically had a reason for everything he put into action. Still however, as he swept from Dumbledore's office, he couldn't help cursing himself for going there in the first place. He had gone for guidance and had instead been sent on a tangent-mission with little more than a pat on the head.

* * *

The Friday that had been universally anticipated by the entire student body came and went in such a peaceful fashion that Hermione felt sure Draco Malfoy had kept his word: before their confrontation she'd endured some sort of torment from the Slytherins every time one of them had chanced to see her, and now she could raise her hand for a question during Transfiguration without fear of being hatefully mocked by Pansy Parkinson.

In fact, during that last particularly raucous lesson in Transfiguration, Malfoy had smacked his hand against the back of Crabbe's thick skull when he tried to jinx Hermione from under his desk. And, as Granger had passed by them after exiting the classroom, Malfoy had scowled threateningly at Pansy as she opened her mouth to fling some insult. Pansy had pouted, of course, and Crabbe had complained, but so far neither of them had questioned Draco's sudden change of mood (the truth being that they had long since become accustomed to Malfoy's caprices).

Hermione, for her part, wasn't all that grateful to him, although he felt sure he expected her to be; he caught her eye as she strode past him, with a look that seemed to say " _see? They'll bugger off now- because of me. You're welcome."_ She'd only glared at him reproachfully. After all, it was his fault they had begun acting so foolish in the first place, so it was no great personal service rendered on his end. Plus, she'd had to force the deal out of him.

The weekend itself had seemed to blaze by, both days feeling only like one, although Hermione had managed to snag the time to visit the pitch and watch Harry hold his first round of try-outs as captain of the Gryffindor Quidditch team (It had struck a fierce sort of pride in her heart to watch Harry lead the whole affair; he'd looked so comfortable – at home in his element – barking orders and making decisions. The only blot on the otherwise perfect day had come in the form of Cormac McLaggen, the arrogant prat who had replaced Ron as Prefect at the start of the year. He'd been so cocky, so insufferable, that Hermione hadn't been able to stop her mouth from forming the word, " _confundus"_ and aiming her wand at him during his go for the position of Keeper).

Sunday evening was punctuated by the arrival of a message for Harry and Hermione from Slughorn. Ginny had delivered it, dropping into her seat with an exasperated sigh as she said, "He's invited you, Harry and me to a dinner party this coming Friday." She eyed Hermione with a rather cheeky expression. "He says we're to bring dates, if we want. I've got mine already – obviously – so who'll you be bringing, Hermione?"

Ron dove into the conversation, saving Hermione from having to answer. "Did he even mention me?"

Ginny blinked at him. "Should he have?"

"Of course, he bloody well should have!" Ron cried.

"Well, he didn't. Not once." Ginny said airily. "Consider yourself lucky, brother. You're dodging a bullet, trust me on that. Ask Harry," she nudged Harry with her elbow. "He and I were subjected to the horrors of the Slug Club the moment the Express started rolling."

"That isn't the point," Ron responded in a tone of deep offense, and he broke off to shudder as the Fat Friar glided closely past him. "I mean – blimey! – the man's gone and invited my two best friends, my bloody _sister,_ and my sodding girlfriend. You think he'd extend an invite based on principal!" He jabbed his fork into his mutton and began carving furious strokes into it with his knife. He winced as Lavender swatted him smartly on the back of his neck, making the skin there glow an angry red.

"I apologize," he said, smiling in a manner of forced calm. "You are not sodding, my love - you are magnificent."

"You're going, Lavender?" Harry asked.

"Yes. Parvati and I brought him some candy from Honeydukes to welcome him at the start of the year, and he told us that we could come to the first party he throws for the Slug Club." Lavender simpered, ignoring Ron's furious glances. "What a dreadful name for a club." She added thoughtfully.

Ginny simply rolled her eyes and turned to face Hermione. "I'd almost forgotten," she said, leaning further into Harry as he slid an arm around her waist. "Professor Slughorn also wanted me to tell you to go to his office once you're finished with your dismissal duties."

Hermione groaned, "Well he'll just have to suffer the disappointment until tomorrow; I'm so tired I'm in danger of passing out on the way to the Tower."

"He said it was important." Said Ginny, grinning somewhat apologetically. "He said he'd let it wait if he could, but ' _the matter is of too much consequence."_ She finished in a remarkable imitation of Slughorn's usually pompous tones.

* * *

And so it was with a heavy and resigned heart that Hermione dismissed the Gryffindors from the Hall and made her way towards Slughorn's office, disliking the feeling of being so far underground at this time of night.

She nearly collided with the last person she'd expected to see, Draco Malfoy, who was hovering about in front of the door, looking as though he was trying to drudge up the courage to knock. He skidded out of her way before they could make contact.

Draco looked at her with a closed expression, remembering the last encounter they'd had on Friday. "What are you doing here?" he asked, his voice missing his usual petulant tone.

" _I_ was asked here by Professor Slughorn," Hermione sniffed. "Why are _you_ here?"

"He asked me to come, too." Malfoy mumbled.

"Oh," they lapsed into a few moments of uncomfortable silence. Malfoy seemed to be unable to look at her, focusing instead on kicking lightly at the floor with the toe of his shoe.

"Shall I?" Hermione offered, and Draco stepped aside to let her rap firmly on the door.

A small rectangular slit popped open in the door and a watery eye peered out at Hermione before the slit was closed and the sounds of multiple locks clicking free came from behind the wood; a moment later the door was flung open and Slughorn motioned them inside, expelling his usual torrent of jovial greetings.

"Hello, hello!" he exclaimed, and Hermione fought off a scowl as he placed his hand to the small of her back and led her over to one of the liberally-cushioned sofas. Draco watched as she visibly stiffened at Slughorn's touch and waved away the urge to say something; he had no reason to care. "Mr. Malfoy, sit down here, if you please." Said the professor, indicating the spot next to Hermione.

He sat about a foot away from her and they shared a conversation in glares, during which she said, "I hate you," and he said, "It isn't as if I like it, either."

"I am aware that you both must be terribly exhausted," he said. "I apologize for calling you away from the prospect of your beds."

Slughorn seemed to expect them to dismiss such a thought, but neither Hermione nor Draco felt much of an inclination towards replying. His eyes settled on Draco. "Professor Snape approached me on Saturday with inquiries into your progress in my class, and I'm sorry to tell you my boy, that I had to tell him the truth."

Hermione's head turned slightly away from Malfoy to hide her grin from his line of sight.

"I know you are not the worst, but you are a Prefect, and as such you have to meet certain standards to keep such a privilege. Needless to say, Professor Snape was not happy to hear such a report." Slughorn said, with a patronizing frown at Draco. "He requested that I provide you with extra lessons, and I agree that they would be most beneficial to you."

Slughorn turned his gaze to Hermione now, who had stopped smiling entirely. "How's that for wisdom, Miss Granger? You were spot-on! So of course, I told Severus that you would be most willing to accept the challenge.

Draco's eyes slid over to Hermione. They practically creaked with accusation and anger as they moved. Hermione stiffened, feeling suddenly as if as spotlight had materialized directly above her, powering on with a thunderous shutter of sound. She immediately launched a barrage of questions to herself: Where was she to find the time? Surely she had enough on her plate. How could she get out of it? _How_ had she allowed herself to just amble along in to such a position?

It was her turn to take a frown from Slughorn, and she realized how long she'd just been sitting there, staring at him.

"I must say, my dear, I'd honestly thought you'd be more enthusiastic. It was you who pointed out Draco's need for more attention and guidance. Besides," Slughorn adjusted himself in his chair, his great belly rippling along with the movement. "Professor Snape has asked Dumbledore to lend his support, and he has."

"There is no way," Draco said, shaking his head with vehemence. "I don't need any bloody lessons from _her._ I'd rather fail, thanks."

Slughorn narrowed his eyes as he assessed Draco. "You haven't much of a choice, Mr. Malfoy," he said, his tone considerably colder. "As the Head of your House has every right to adjust your schedule as he sees fit - to see you improve of course. The Headmaster himself has reason enough, as well, considering the job he personally gave you requires that you to maintain a well-rounded standard. I should think you would be grateful for such attentions to your welfare, but whether you like it or not, you will take the help you are offered."

Draco wanted to scream; he wanted to tell Slughorn that he was wrong, that Snape only wanted to watch for an opportunity to claim glory, and Dumbledore only wanted to keep a prying eye on him. But what would Slughorn understand of that?

Draco spoke up now, in a small, pleading sort of voice. "Couldn't _anyone_ do it, Professor? It doesn't have to be me, does it?" she asked. "I only ask because I've taken on quite a bit this year with my classes – every N.E.W.T. level course that I could – _and_ I've got Prefect duties, and the time that _isn't_ taken up by those things I spend trying to sleep."

"I understand, Miss Granger, but I really was counting on you." Said Slughorn, his jowls quivering with the force of his immense, mournful sigh. "It isn't as if Potter can do it – with Quidditch and classes, and all those worries already on his mind – and then, you _did_ say only Thursday you would love to dedicate a helping hand to whomever may need it…"

The seconds ticked by, during which Hermione was strangely impressed with Slughorn's conversation recall, and Draco was sending a silent prayer out into the atmosphere, " _Don't give in Granger, tell him to stuff it, for the love of God."_

"I… Oh,- alright then."

"Wonderful!" Slughorn clapped his meaty hands together once and stood up, gesturing for them to follow suit. "I knew you wouldn't disappoint. Now, I've gone over it with McGonagall and Snape, and we've figured that each Monday and Wednesday you will both use your free periods before lunch to come to the dungeon while it's empty, where Mr. Malfoy will receive the benefit that is your knowledge, Miss Granger…"

* * *

As Draco and Hermione wound their way up the spiral staircase that led to ground-level, Hermione lagged behind, putting at least ten steps between them. With only a few feet left to go, Malfoy found his words.

"You just couldn't refuse, could you?" he drawled, looking down at her from over his shoulder.

"I'm not in the mood, Malfoy," she said in a bored voice. He reached the first level and turned, as if to wait for her. Her hand dove into her pocket and closed around her wand, quite on its own. "Do you think I _want_ to waste my time and effort on you? I hate this. I… I _abhor_ it. Just because you can't tell your pestle from your elbow, I've got to load even more nonsense on my plate."

"You agreed readily enough." Malfoy countered, grinning at her in a way he knew would get under her skin. "I actually assumed you _did_ want to take the job, seeing how little you fought. Besides, I know how you love to be near me."

Hermione scoffed. "Think again, ferret." She was pleased to see him flinch. She hardly ever used that insult, simply so that it would never wear off on him. "Being near you the last time nearly resulted in paralysis."

At her words Draco yet again imagined himself as he'd shoved Granger against the wall. He'd found himself thinking of it sporadically over the past few days; he didn't _need_ her reminder.

She watched his eyes flick away from her to his feet. "I wasn't trying to _paralyze_ you." He mumbled defensively.

"But you _were_ trying to hurt me," Hermione immediately cut in. "trying to scare me, at least. And you succeeded pretty well in the former, as I've still got the bruises to remind me."

Her voice trailed off and Draco's eyes hovered to her shoulders as if expecting them to glow with accusation.

"Again, Granger," he spat, and the words tumbled from him mouth without much thought on his part. "I hadn't meant to hurt you. I was angry and you can blame yourself for that."

Hermione narrowed her eyes. "Seriously?" she said. " _That's_ your idea of an apology?"

Immediately his countenance became indignant. He turned on his heel and went on his way. Hermione waited until his footsteps began to fade before following, a wary smile ghosting her lips.

* * *

The following evening, Hermione found herself sitting on the carpet in front of the hearth in Gryffindor tower, surrounded on all sides by the sympathies of her friends. She told them everything about the job Slughorn had given her, and it felt a little odd to have all their attention on her. Harry was leaning back in one of the overstuffed arm chairs, holding Ginny's hand as she draped it over his knee, curled up on the carpet by his legs (they always seemed to need to touch each other whenever they were near enough for it). Lavender was perched in Ron's lap, and Hermione could see him trying to get a good look at her through all those masses ringlet curls.

"You'll have to go to McGonagall, you will." Said Ron, and Harry nodded in vehement agreement. "She'll put a stop to it, with that brutish way she's got."

"Don't call her brutish, Ronald." Hermione said reproachfully. "Besides, she already _knows_. Slughorn got her to arrange my schedule, with Dumbledore's support, I might add."

Harry's eyebrows rose so far up his forehead that they seemed in danger of detaching at his hairline and whizzing about through the air. "Dumbledore is for it." There was no question in his voice, but Hermione nodded all the same.

"Apparently Snape went to him for support. Just to move things along, I suppose."

Harry contemplated silently for a long time, his eyes glazing over with that intense look of concentration Hermione recognized. The flames from the hearth reflected against his glasses, making his eyes hard to see, but his brooding had developed a palpable aspect over the years. Everyone who knew Harry well enough could always feel when he was sinking into his own thoughts.

"What is it, love?" said Ginny, and she reached up to rub a small circle over his chest, calling him back to Earth. His eyes cleared as he looked at her, and then he was addressing Hermione.

"Don't you see?" he glanced around at their blank faces and resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "Dumbledore knows there's something going on with him. This proves it! Malfoy's got to be a Death Eater, it's so bloody obvious."

Hermione exchanged a cautious look with Ginny. "Harry," she said, "I agree that Dumbledore probably wants to keep an eye on Malfoy, but that doesn't make him a Death Eater. Dumbledore's got plenty of reasons to watch him without suspecting him of such a thing."

"I know I cannot possibly be the one who sees the signs!" He said, his tone mildly exasperated.

"There aren't really any signs, mate." Said Ron, in what he hoped would be a reasonable tone. "All we've got against him is that shopping trip he made with mummy to Borgin and Burke's, and-

"And then Malfoy _clearly_ threatened the shopkeeper with his Mark." Harry interjected. "You guys didn't hear him on the train. He was practically bragging about following in his father's footsteps."

"I'm sure he was Harry," Hermione said. "Much the same way he bragged about being Slytherin's heir during second year."

"Yeah, Malfoy is all talk." Ron agreed. "He always has been. I'm sorry, Harry, but I don't see Malfoy getting the chops to do something as stupid as joining You-Know-Who's forces."

Harry's glance darted between each of his friends, meeting with the same expression of masked doubt on them all – even Ginny. He straightened up and drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair and said, "Fine, maybe I'm wrong… I sincerely doubt that I _am,_ but you've still got to be as careful as possible, Hermione. Death Eater or not, Malfoy is a threat to you."

Hermione snorted despite the waves of seriousness emanating from Harry. "Draco Malfoy is so far from threatening, Harry. I can take care of myself."

"I know you can," Harry said. "But you're smart too, so you must know what I mean… Incidentally, let me know if he starts acting strange, will you? You'll be seeing a lot of him, he's bound to slip up."

"Harry, I will point out the same thing I said the last time we had this conversation: it is highly unlikely that Malfoy will say anything to _me_ – Mudblood Granger – that might give any part of himself away." Hermione said, uncomfortable with the almost obsessive gleam in Harry's eye.

Ron let out a series of muffled coughs from behind Lavender's liberally-moussed hair. "Darling, you'll have to give me some air – you're suffocating me."

* * *

"Bloody potions… bloody Slughorn, you fat _swine._ " Draco's violent mutterings trailed behind him as he slumped his way down to the Potions classroom. They echoed back to him, reverberating from the stones of the wall that always seemed to retain a little moisture.

He had come alone (obviously) and elected to tell no one where he was going. He simply ducked down through the door that led to the spiral steps when no one was looking, and silently appreciating that the foot-traffic to and from the dungeon was made up only of himself.

He was angry, that much was certain; and there was no small feeling of blistering resentment currently burgeoning through his chest, but he could not find it in himself to be angry at Granger. He was irritated with her beyond words, for setting up this whole debacle with her comments to Slughorn about his grades, but still, he felt rather as if they had been shoved unceremoniously into the same boat. Over the last few weeks Granger had made it perfectly clear that the sight of him alone was repugnant to her, and he had done the same for her. Yet, here they were.

That isn't to say Draco felt any comradery with Hermione at the moment. In fact, he would have rather been stuck in this situation with literally _anyone_ else (excluding, of course, Potter and Weasley), even that pompous prat, Ernie McMillan. At least he was a pure-blood. Draco also couldn't help wondering if this forced tutoring was karmic retribution for the way he'd taken the mickey out of Potter so gleefully over remedial potions last year.

Draco had been in a frenzy Sunday night, after breaking off from the Mudblood once they'd left Slughorn's office, searching for Snape in every corner of the castle he came across. He finally found the slimy git lurking around the third-floor corridor, apparently with nothing better to do than traipse about the castle like some ghoulish apparition:

"What part don't you understand about keeping your nose out of my business?" Malfoy exclaimed, practically screeching. "You've gone and landed me two hours a week with that prudish Granger for God knows how long!"

Snape peered down his generous nose at Draco, his expression unreadable. "I'm doing you a favor, Draco." He said, his face impassive. "Whether you want to accept it or not, you are an object of constant scrutiny. And now you're failing a subject you usually excel at, and cornering muggle-born students in the open."

Draco flinched, realizing for the first time that Snape may have witnessed his encounter with Granger. He wasn't sure why it made him bristle so much to know that Snape had seen, but it felt as if Snape had dug out some kind of secret about him.

"But – why _her?_ " Draco said, seething. "Why'd you have to go and get her involved?"

"I didn't get her involved," Snape replied, only partially lying. "Professor Slughorn recommended her. I was left with very little choice but to agree. I can sense you are restless, Draco. No! – Listen to me." He silenced Malfoy, who had opened his mouth to speak, by holding up his hand. "Your mission from the Dark Lord is quite literally _life_ or _death_ , Draco! You must be bullet-proof."

"What are bullets?"

Snape glared. "That doesn't matter!" He snapped. "The point is: no one may have even the slightest doubts of your innocence, if you want to get through this without a one-way ticket to Azkaban."

Draco clenched his jaw angrily. "Fine," he forced out. "But don't think you can barrel in and claim any credit when I succeed. I'll do as you say in this case, but you and I nothing further to talk about. I mean it, _professor."_

With one last withering glare he'd left Snape, who stared at him rather wearily.

He had known that Snape was right about the things he said – he knew that now as he approached the classroom and threw the door open. But still, the flare of resentment quivering like a live animal in his chest only strengthened as he entered the room and laid eyes on _her._

Hermione had begun to grow impatient; ten entire minutes had drudged past with no sign of Malfoy, and it was easy for her to imagine that he'd refused to come at all. It would be just like him to do such a thing, and not bother to let her know. In fact, any inconvenience he caused her would probably make the whole thing seem funny to him.

As she was seconds from packing her things and leaving, the door swung open so violently that she started at the sound.

"It's about time," said Hermione grudgingly, adjusting back into her seat. "I had just about given up on you."

"Yes, well, you'd be joining the majority, Granger. Sorry to disappoint you." He sighed heavily as he slumped into the stool adjacent to her, closing his eyes and running a hand through his hair. He popped an eye open and looked at her, his chin resting wearily in his hand.

Hermione blinked, momentarily caught up in the act of trying to decipher the mood she was picking up from him. She could see things brewing over his visage, but there was no telling what they were, exactly.

"Are you okay?" Both of his eyes opened now, and he could tell that she'd more or less blurted it out. He couldn't recall the last time someone had asked him something so personal without an air of trepidation, like they were afraid to ask him. She simply stared back at him, still blinking, still waiting for an answer. It was clear that she actually expected an answer, something he noted with amused disdain.

"I'm fine," he said finally. He glanced around the table top, looking for some other object to deflect her attention to. "Where are the cauldrons? The ingredients?"

"We won't be _brewing_ anything today," Said Hermione, matter-of-factly. "Practical application won't come up until next week, actually." She snapped open the flap of her messenger bag and extracted a bit of parchment folded sandwich-style. She opened it and slid it over the table to him, and Draco noted how neatly her fingernails were filed. They were clean, but Draco would have pegged her as a no-polish sort of girl anyway.

"You've got to be joking," he almost chuckled, drinking in the ridiculousness of what was written on the unfolded parchment. "You can't seriously have just handed me a bloody _syllabus."_

"It's only for reference," said Hermione, not in the least phased. "I wouldn't call it a syllabus, necessarily; it's more just an outline of what we _could_ cover, should you need to."

"There's four years' worth of potions material on this chart, Granger," Said Malfoy. Hermione was nonplussed to sense no real irritation coming from him. It seemed almost as if he were just teasing her. "I should be offended that you apparently think I'm _this_ thick. I'm not that bad at potions."

"I know you're not." Said Hermione. "But I at least need to figure out which areas you've been having trouble in."

"This is the over-achiever in you popping out for a hello, isn't it?" he said, and Hermione snatched the parchment from his hand, leaving a thin paper-cut in its wake. Draco sucked on the skin between his thumb and forefinger, his eyes surprisingly benign.

"There's no need to be a prat, Malfoy." Hermione snapped, and a smirk that was almost a smile danced at the corners of his mouth. Hermione cleared her throat. "Like I said, I was only trying to get a feel for which areas you need improvement in. All I really need you to do is look through that chart and point out anything you've possibly forgotten, anything you think you could use some review in. I think it's important that we cover as many basics as possible, so that we can solidify them in your memory and you'll have an easier time throughout the year. Then we'll start applying what we've reviewed…"

She went on like this for quite some time, and after a while Draco began to zone out. He was thinking of nothing, really, but it was the nice sort of nothing. His brain buzzed and he just watched Granger prattle on, knowing that it was better to just let her release some steam before he interrupted.

At some point she finally stopped speaking and his eyes came back into focus.

His reply was a shot in the dark, but it seemed to satisfy her. "I only really need to go over the things Slughorn's covered so far. I was fine with this subject until this year."

Hermione nodded. "So in that case, we'll just go over a little of the material from the end of last year, and everything from this year. How's that?"

"Let's just get this over with, shall we?" He said, and allowed Hermione to open last year's text (he'd have been surprised she still possessed her copy, but… it was Granger he was looking at) in front of him, flipping to the last chapters.

"I figured you could start by going over the principals and terms from each chapter, starting from the bit on Mandalla's Standard for key anti-venom properties."

He spread his own, blank parchment before him and dipped a sleek black quill into his inkwell. He began copying chapter outlines and defining terms with gusto, and was surprised to discover that he had in fact forgotten much of what he was looking at. It was almost unnerving to realize how easily things could be shunted from a person's mind by other stress-inducing matters.

The minutes passed fluidly; Draco studied and Hermione watched him, suddenly feeling very self-conscious about whether or not she was doing this whole "tutoring business" properly. She began to realize how ridiculous she must look, sitting in silence while Malfoy's nose was crammed into a book, writing away. Wasn't she supposed to _say_ something? Still, she refrained from interrupting him, shying away from the thought of calling his attention back to her.

As she watched him read, breaking only to scribble something every now and then with his quill, it occurred to Hermione that she had never seen him this way; he was so calm and concentrated, his features were relaxed, without that ever-present scowl etched over his lips. He looked how she often felt, studying away the hours in the library, very little care about anything but the knowledge in front of her. She would never have said it to him, but at that moment Draco had sort of revealed a similarity they shared in their make-up. He would probably curse her if she so much as hinted at it.

 _Who knew that was possible,_ Hermione thought, inwardly chuckling.

Draco's eyes snapped up to meet hers. "What?" He asked flatly, and Hermione resisted the urge to smack her head against the table top. "Who knew _what_ was possible?"

"I was thinking," Hermione immediately blurted. Draco knitted his brows, confused slightly as he watched Granger's ears turn a remarkable shade of pink. "I hadn't meant to say that out loud. It's nothing for you to concern yourself with, keep reading."

He was tempted to make her squirm. It would have been easy enough, judging by the look of her – all agitated and inexplicably embarrassed. He did wonder what sort of thoughts a girl like Granger had that could make her react that way, but somehow he knew that to draw that out of her would take a lot of provocation, and he wasn't looking to argue with her.

Hermione was relieved when he finally looked away, with nothing more than a slight smirk. She searched the room purposefully, looking for something to focus on, and settled on watching the hands of the clock on the wall above Slughorn's desk draw closer to noon.

After a quarter of an hour passed, Draco's concentration was broken by the sounds of Granger shifting around in her seat. She was collecting her things and sliding them with alacrity into her bag. "It's time to go. I just wanted to take a look at what you've written so far, if that's alright."

Draco nodded and as she leaned forward to take the notes from him, he caught a burst of her scent and immediately thought of lilacs. His shoulders stiffened and he leaned back – away from her – in such a way that Hermione noticed.

"What, do I smell?" She asked sarcastically, frowning at him.

"You _always_ smell, Granger." Said Malfoy immediately. "I'm sure it's just a symptom of your foul blood. There's nothing you can really _do_ about it – in terms of a permanent fix – but you could at least back away about ten steps so that I can breathe again."

Hermione was a breath away from slapping him. Perhaps it was the reappearance of that ghastly smirk (an image that Hermione had not missed), or maybe it his naturally noxious personality that caused her hand to twitch with a mad desire to strike the look from his face. At the last moment she regained control of herself and straightened up, but not before Malfoy saw the dangerous flash arc across her features.

She seemed to leave the air around him much colder than it had been before. He schooled his own expression and let her examine his notes without a further word, sure that if an argument broke out between them, it would bring on a headache that would last for days.

"You've managed to get pretty far," said Hermione approvingly. "If you go like this every time we meet, we could get you caught up in no time."

"That's what I'm counting on." Said Draco, a sudden urge to make her bristle overcoming him. A moment ago he'd been determined to avoid an argument, but he couldn't stand the sudden cordiality between them. The feeling came from nowhere and settled on his chest. He suddenly wanted her to be angry with him, as she usually was.

"I'll need you to tell me if I'm wasting my time, Malfoy." Hermione said after a moment. "I'm not foolish enough to believe that you're taking these meetings seriously, you know, and I haven't really got the energy to spend on someone who won't even appreciate it."

"And you're thinking that your abrupt assumption would change that?" He asked.

"I was simply hoping," said Hermione evenly. "That you might be capable of caring that it's _my_ life your making more difficult, even if you don't care about your own."

"Ah, well, there's your mistake Granger – You shouldn't get your hopes that I'll ever care about anything concerning you."

Hermione simply shook her head and rolled her eyes, holding out his notes. He responded by crossing his arms over his chest, refusing to take them from her. So Hermione simply took a step forward and slapped them down on the table in front of him, aggressively enough to make him jump.

"I'll see you Wednesday." She said, and with that, she left him sitting on his stool and pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, feeling a headache coming on.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

I'd like to take this opportunity to thank those two wonderful souls who reviewed my story. You'll never know how much your kind words meant to me.

I began writing this story as a way to feel like I was contributing to the lovely world of reading in some form, and to see that a few of you really seem to enjoy what I've written warms my heart. So, thank you for your favorites and your follows, they mean so much more to me than I could ever express, as cheesy as that sounds.

Yours Truly,

Emma Perry


	6. Coming Closer

** Sorry it's taken a bit longer than usual to upload this chapter. I've been working on it between work and classes, but it took me a while to get the content to the place I wanted. However, I think you'll all enjoy it! Well, I hope, anyway.

* * *

Chapter Six –

Hermione woke up on Wednesday with a headache that had been with her since Monday. There was nothing, apparently, that even Madam Pomfrey could do about it. As Hermione recalled, her words had been, "I'm sorry, my dear, but it looks as if you'll have to ride this one out." She lay in her bed now with a pillow held firmly over here face to block out the light streaming through her window. She could somewhat hear the sounds of two girls bickering over who had stolen an enchanted plant from beside one of their beds, and she pressed the pillow more tightly over her head.

"I hate weekdays," she sighed into the cloth, and then braced herself for the light that would inevitably blind her eyes as she lifted the pillow from over her and tossed it to the other side of her bed.

There was at least one thing to look forward to: a letter from her parents had come yesterday during breakfast. She'd forgotten about it until she'd finally made her way up to her room to flop on top of her bed, and by then she'd been too tired to read it. Hermione now got up and padded lightly to her desk, the floorboards cold underneath her bare feet. She piled herself into the elegant chair which matched the mahogany wood of the desk perfectly, and slid a pearl-handled letter-opener across the flap of the crisp, clean envelope.

Hermione immediately recognized her mother's handwriting, and couldn't help the slight feeling of disappointment that fluttered weakly in her chest; her father never wrote to her. The most she ever heard from him when she was away was the line of love squeezed in at the close of each letter, usually no more than, "Dad says he misses you, and to keep up the good work." Hermione swallowed the negative emotion and pursued the letter, but by the end of it she found that she was suddenly more depressed than she probably would have been if she'd just left the letter unopened.

Her mother filled her in on the trivial aspects of their lives. As dentists, her parents weren't the most exciting pair in the world; the most adventurous thing Hermione could think of that they'd ever done was attend a party held by their practice, where the theme was a little risqué, and during which they had looked on distastefully as the secretary sat on the lap of a married doctor who'd elected to dress up as Santa Claus (Shirtless Santa, to be exact). However, as uneventful as her parent's life seemed, Hermione couldn't help longing to be a part of it once more.

It genuinely felt as if it had been years since Hermione had last seen her parents; the summer she spent with them seemed to fly by, and then, she had spent the last bit of it at the Burrow, a decision which she now rather regretted. After the events at the Ministry, when Voldemort was finally acknowledged to have returned, the time she spent with her parents seemed to have warped, turning six weeks into one. Hermione wondered now if this was because she'd kept so much from them, had distanced herself so effectively that even when she was with them, she felt very, very far away.

Hermione sighed down at the letter, and when her breath hitched in her throat she realized that she'd actually started to cry. She wasn't weeping, necessarily, but she was well aware that if she'd had time on her side she could have worked up a pretty good sobbing session. It may have even been nice, in a morbidly depressing way. She couldn't remember the last time she'd let her emotions carry her away, and what was that expression…? Sometimes all you need is a good cry.

She touched her fingers to her eye and sure enough, they came away glistening with her own tears. The sight of them was almost funny in a way, because she just didn't have time for them.

* * *

Later on that morning, Hermione did something she hadn't even considered for a very long time: she skived off of Transfiguration class.

Well, _skived_ wasn't necessarily the right word, seeing as McGonagall let her go rather willingly, after the short plea Hermione had broached to her.

She approached McGonagall's desk before the rest of her peers arrived with an air of trepidation so extreme that McGonagall could practically feel it radiating from her. The professor took her spectacles from her face, looking up from her issue of the _Daily Prophet_ (yet again featuring Harry's face on the first page). "What is it, Miss Granger? What's happened?" She demanded, panicking slightly, with the knowledge that Albus had been away from the castle since yesterday evening.

"Oh! – nothing, Professor." Hermione said hurriedly, seeing the alarmed look on McGonagall's face. "I only wondered whether… well… whether you've ever had such a terrible day that you literally can't stand the thought of doing _anything?"_

McGonagall raised her eyebrows, her mouth puckering in an expression of surprise. "Where is this leading, Miss Granger?" Always cutting to the chase, McGonagall was.

Hermione glanced down at her hands, fiddling with them before her skirt in a nervous fashion. She decided that she had better just spit it out. "Professor, I don't want to stay for class today."

McGonagall remained silent for quite some time, her mouth set in a serious line. She exhaled from her nostrils. "I do not wish to be harsh with you, Miss Granger," she began, picking about her words carefully. "but I must remind you that you are hardly through your second month this term. Has the pressure become too much for you already?"

"I know that," Hermione whispered. She cleared her throat. "To answer your question, no, the pressure has not become too much for me. But I can feel it getting there. It isn't just school, Professor. If it were, I could handle that, as you are aware, I'm sure."

Professor McGonagall's face took on a knowing expression, but Hermione plowed on, determined to explain herself, in the back of her mind hoping that it might help alleviate some of the negative feelings piling up inside her. So she told McGonagall a truth that she'd ignored so completely that it felt like a lie as the words left her mouth. "I've been having stressful dreams, lately… They're awful, really. Mostly they're about my parents, about what sort of future I could possibly have in the sort of hateful world I'm living in. It sounds selfish, I know. I shouldn't be so worried about myself when I've got Harry right next to me, suffering far more than I could ever fathom. I never see him complain, you know…"

Hermione trailed off and looked back at her hands, missing the way Professor McGonagall's eyes softened considerably.

"I woke up this morning and I instantly knew that today just would not be my day, if that makes any sense at all." Hermione continued. "I know that I'll be better tomorrow, if only I could find a way to relax. I would use my free period, but I've got to tutor Malfoy."

"Ah. Yes, that." Hermione was somewhat baffled as Professor McGonagall wrinkled her nose. "I am well aware of your situation with Mr. Malfoy… I am rather sorry to have played a part in it, but Professor Dumbledore seemed to think it was best."

Hermione glanced up. "Do you know why that is, Professor?" She asked, "I've actually been wondering about that."

"Unfortunately the Headmaster has decided not to divulge his reason for such an assignment," McGonagall sighed. "And I am confident that he _does_ have a reason. However, there is no sense in worrying yourself about that, Miss Granger. All you can do is try your best to help Mr. Malfoy, and let things unfold as they will."

Hermione pursed her lips in thought. "I think I can handle class today, Professor," she said finally. "Now I'm actually rather embarrassed that I even asked. But I think you're right, I just have to… stop worrying."

McGonagall's brows scrunched together, her forehead wrinkling, and Hermione recognized a look of concern. "No…" she said softly, "No, Miss Granger, I think I understand you. And I think that you have more than earned the right – after five years of perfect behavior – to one hour for yourself. _One_ hour is all you will get, although I don't expect that you will make a habit of this."

"No, I couldn't," said Hermione, her embarrassment increasing. This was not the way of Hermione Granger… What was she _doing,_ asking a professor to let her out of her responsibilities? "I can handle it, I know I can. I only have to get out of my own mind. I don't want to fall behind."

"I am afraid that I insist, Miss Granger." Said McGonagall, opening a drawer in her desk and extracting a pad of cream colored stationary. She dipped an emerald quill into her inkwell and began to scrawl something across the paper. "Take this note in case anyone finds you out of class. It gives my permission for you to… wander the grounds, nap under a tree – anything you wish. Now get out, before the other students see you leaving and start to beg for an out themselves."

As Hermione turned to leave, her cheeks visibly pink with shame, McGonagall resisted the urge to call her back and shove her biscuit tin into Hermione's arms. Somehow she was inclined to believe that Hermione was not the type for comfort eating, and she felt a little hopeless that she had nothing more in her arsenal for such a student.

* * *

Draco was in a very bad mood, and he sat at the back of the Transfiguration classroom, fuming; like Hermione he had received a letter from his family – his father, to be exact, although he wrote under the name Cyrus Hopkins in case anyone intercepted Draco's mail; it was preferable that Draco was thought to have as little interaction with his father as possible.

It was a short letter. There was no line of love or information of the goings-on of Malfoy manner. In fact, the letter consisted of three brief, extremely short-hand lines, but the message was clear.

 _Draco,_

 _I have not heard any good things about you – that must change. He is restless. You must plan accordingly and efficiently, action will soon be expected._

Once he was through with it, Draco immediately felt nauseated and a cold film of sweat beading at his hairline. It was as if he had finished a pot of the strongest tea imaginable and the itch to get up and do something – _anything_ – vibrated through him, causing his hands to shake and his breath to hitch in his throat.

He was also immensely frustrated; what did they expect? Only a few days had passed since the beginning of October, and it was as if Draco had missed a deadline. _Not even two bloody months and they're on my back_ he thought savagely. Angry and resentful, poisonous thoughts swirled through his head like a particularly nasty blizzard, punctuated only by the sharp knocks of pain that knocked against the interior of his skull, and the unexpected awareness that Granger was nowhere to be found amongst the other students packed into the class.

Potter and Weasley were there, however, and Draco listened intently as they held a muttered conversation about her as McGonagall turned her back to the class, drawing a visual of the wand movement needed to alter the sound of one's own voice on the blackboard.

"Did she say anything to you?" the Weasel hissed under his breath.

Potter shook his head. "No, not a thing." He said. "But she seemed off at breakfast."

"She's probably fine," Said Weasley, and Draco was amused to see that his expression of tightly wound anxiety did not match the confidence of his words. "She's probably off giving some poor third year detention for running in the halls. You know how she is."

Draco resisted the urge to snort, doubting wholeheartedly that this was the case. Not once could he remember Granger missing a class so unexpectedly, excluding the time she'd spent petrified during second year.

For their role as the Mudbloods best friends in the whole, sunshiney Kingdom, they didn't seem to pay her very much mind. Even Draco had noticed the frantic currents of nervous electricity that was ever-present in Granger's eyes, the constantly tense set of her shoulders. Even he could see Granger was inches from cracking, and these two baboons were too busy grunting and picking food from their teeth to notice it. It was quite sad, really.

As his mind wandered Draco partially wondered where she'd got to, after all. He leaned back in his seat and pushed both of his hands into the pockets of his trousers, abandoning any pretense of attention to McGonagall's lecture; he had learned over a year ago how to change the sound of his voice, thinking the trick would come in handy. So far he'd yet to use the maneuver once, but at least during this particularly boring lesson he could allow himself to drift off and pretend he was somewhere else.

His hand closed around two bits of closely folded parchment in his left pocket. He pulled both of them out and recognized the first instantly as his father's letter. He didn't need or want to open it again; simply seeing it brought back the flood of antsy anger he'd experienced the first time round.

Yet again he wondered what they – his parents, the Dark Lord, Bellatrix and so on – expected from him so early on. His first month in the castle had hardly faded and already it was as if he was meant to ship Dumbledore's head to Voldemort's doorstep on a spit, ready to roast and dance around. He'd immediately wanted to send his father a scathing reply in his defense, to write Lucius and tell him that he'd already formed a plan and was currently working his balls off trying to get it done, but he knew it was useless. In fact, Draco couldn't imagine any positive outcome from taking such an action; it would probably only bring on his father's wrath if Draco put such sensitive information in a letter.

He really _did_ have a plan, though, delivered by his old lackey, Montague. Graham had told practically anyone who would stand still long enough to hear him what had happened to him after he'd been trapped in the broken Vanishing Cabinet, as if it were some hero's tale of survival. Every one of his listeners had simply taken it as such, but Draco was able to see the potential from such an occurrence, which was ideal, as he preferred to be the only one who really grasped what the Vanishing Cabinet's presence in the castle could mean.

According to Montague, after being stuffed and trapped in the Cabinet, he could hear certain sounds and signals from the environment outside, and he swore that at one moment, he was in Hogwarts, and during the next moment, he was suddenly inside Borgin and Burke's. He was unable to make anyone hear him, however, and there didn't seem to be a way out, as the Cabinet was surely broken. But Draco, immediately after hearing the story, realized that if the Cabinet could only be fixed, there would be a way into Hogwarts from that dingy little shop in Knockturn Alley, a place that could be accessed by any witch or wizard with an able wand.

The only downside to such a plan was that repairing it would most definitely be difficult. It may even prove to be impossible, and Draco had no idea at all where to start looking to learn a method of fixing it, or if there even _was_ a method to fix it. So far he'd had no time to really dedicate to the idea; Draco had only been to the Room of Hidden Things twice since the start of term, and both times he'd just stood in front of the blasted thing and stared at it quite stupidly, too nervous to take any action, to try anything at all, in case someone popped up out of nowhere in the room with him. Plus, he was seriously afraid that he might simply cause much more damage, if he tried anything without knowing at least partially what he was doing.

What Draco really needed was time. He needed to hunker down in the library or something and do some proper research, look for anything that might clue him in to what he could do to mend such a complicated magical object.

But – and this was the question that made Draco want to tear each strand of his hair out by the follicle – where was he to find the time? With his family in one corner, demanding for Draco to save them, to bring their honor back – and Dumbledore in the other, watching his every move for suspicious activity, he rather felt as if he spent more time trying to calm himself down more than anything else. And then there was the fact that he did have to keep up appearances, Snape was right about that, at least. He had to maintain his grades, his spot on the Slytherin Quidditch team, and his position as Prefect, and those things hogged most of his waking hours. Now there were the bloody tutoring lessons from Granger to tack on to his crowded to-do list.

A strange sensation – strange, but one that Draco was steadily becoming more accustomed to – started at the pit of his stomach and began to blossom upwards and out, reaching into all of his extremities, right down to his toes. He had, of course, experienced high levels of anxiety many times, more frequently as he got older, but those feelings of the past could have never held a candle to what he'd been feeling lately. He wasn't even sure there was a word for this sensation – which caused a frigid flash of heat to explode through his pores, making every inch of his skin prickle – because _anxiety_ didn't seem to cover it. It was as if he were feeling the effects of starvation, his fingers shaking and his vision blurring, his insides writhing like a sandy pit full of snakes. Slowly it worsened to an even greater extent, pushing the boundaries further.

Every thought he had was incoherent, but they were each drenched in a fear such as he'd never felt before. The only thing he could grasp onto were mental images of his father's gaunt face behind the moist black bars of a cell in Azkaban, that look of apologetic terror on his mother's face the last time he'd been alone with her...

A sense of impending doom stole over Draco, hanging in the very air he breathed as if trying to suffocate him – to ring out his neck and suck all the life out of him. He almost wished that it _would_ kill him, and along with that he realized that he was having an actual panic attack, something he'd read of but had never actually experienced, and now he was having one in the middle of class, of all the bloody times and places.

"What is it?" a low voice mumbled close to him. Draco looked over to see Greggory Goyle staring at him with wide eyes. "You look as if you're about to pass out. D'you need the hospital wing?"

Draco heard himself speak as though a hundred feet from his own body. "Of course I don't need the bloody hospital wing, you _dolt._ " Goyle leaned away, looking at Draco as if he'd gone absolutely mental.

 _Maybe I am going mad,_ he thought, and through the fog he was shocked to hear his own inner voice echoed with a profound sort of sadness. Draco closed his eyes, _enough of this._

Over the last weeks before the start of term his Aunt Bellatrix had taken on the task of teaching Draco Occlumency. Each lesson was a dreadful experience, and every time he'd walked away feeling dirty, somehow. He would have given both arms to be able to say he'd never felt Bella's vile presence in his mind, but he also would have been lying to himself if he'd said the ability hadn't proved to be immensely useful in the long-run. Not only was he able to keep Snape, the hook-nosed git from peeking at his thoughts, but the technique of clearing his thoughts had also turned out to be rather therapeutic, like a healthy round of meditation.

He focused on the sound of his own breathing, which was sporadic and seemed to burst from his lungs the way people tumble over each other to escape the confines of a burning building.

At the beginning of his lessons the prospect of emptying his mind in and of itself had boggled him. However, after hour upon hour of steady practice, which must have cultivated into days of his life altogether, Draco had been able to perfect his own method for driving all thought away from his brain: he simply visualized a wall building itself, brick by brick. He focused on the color and texture of each brick, refusing thoughts in words and converting them to effortless images. It had been one of the hardest things Draco had ever been made to learn, and even now there were times when he couldn't do it at all. Now was one such moment – but still, the effort never failed to release some degree of tension, and that was all he needed.

As his breaths began to even out and his heart rate steadied, Draco opened his eyes. He still held those two bits of parchment – his father's letter and the other unknown. He stuffed the letter back into his left pocket, deciding that it would be best to burn it when he got the chance. The second he opened, if only to have something to look at, something to read, as though to prove that he was now capable of doing it. As his eyes focused on the familiarly neat, loopy writing, he immediately recognized it to be from Granger's hand.

The memory of when she'd given him this paper came back to him. _"_ _You can't seriously have just handed me a bloody syllabus."_

Before he knew it, he was chuckling under his breath, and his mouth edged closer to a genuine smile than it had for a very long time; he was even showing teeth. Only Granger was the sort of person who could be so daft that she was almost _charming._

A mental hand palmed that unwelcome thought away the instant it fluttered through his brain, and for a moment a confused expression seized his features. He didn't want to think of where that thought had come from, because he, Draco Malfoy, certainly _did not_ find Mangy Granger the least bit tolerable, let alone something as amiable as charming. So, instead, he filed the thought away in a box somewhere deep in his mind, labeled Never Look Here, Trust Me, Mate.

His head throbbed with a vengeance, as though to remind Draco that the headache was still with him and ready for some proper attention. He thought back to the argument that had brought the damned thing on, Granger's face swirling through his mind's eye, looking all haughty and repellant. In only two short hours he would once again be subjected to her company, and he hadn't even recovered from the first go.

* * *

Once outside the classroom after the students were dismissed, one of the Chasers for Draco's Quidditch team, Derek McAvoy, seemed to materialize from thin air, clapping a hand onto Draco's shoulder and expelling a cheerful hello as though the two were life-long friends.

"You up for practice today, mate?" he asked with a toothy grin, apparently unbothered by Malfoy's glower.

"There's isn't any practice today," Malfoy said shortly.

"Oh, I suppose no one's filled you in, then," said McAvoy, flipping his tousled mane of sable hair from his face. "Urquhart's moved tomorrow's practice to our free block before lunch. How's that for luck, eh? Here I was thinking we'd have to go another entire day until we got back out there."

Draco's expression cleared, and he almost clapped his hands together as the perfect plan slid into place for him, offered – prim and polished – by this grinning buffoon before him.

"Ah, I can't today," Draco lied easily, constructing his features into a mask of woeful regret. "Every Monday and Wednesday I've got meetings with Slughorn. The man practically falls at my feet to give me extra credit, you know. I'd say he's partial to me, but I don't want to brag."

Draco knew he was stretching it a little too far, but he wasn't about to admit that he was taking remedial lessons from the Bleeding Heart Gryffindor.

McAvoy frowned. "Funnily enough, I thought he didn't like you much." Draco's brow twitched slightly with annoyance. "You can't just reschedule? You're the Seeker, we need you."

"Old Slughorn's the type to feel slighted if someone breaks off a commitment to him." Draco said, shrugging mournfully. It had been so long since he'd told such a manipulative lie that Draco almost savored the rush of it. "But I can make it tomorrow."

"We won't be having practice tomorrow, remember?" Derek said, his frown deepening still. "There won't be another until Sunday."

"Oh, that's right, you did say…" Draco trailed off, trying to look as if he were wracking his brain for a solution. "Well, then, I guess you'll just have to practice with Harper." He tried to hide his amused grin; Harper had the eye of a hawk, but his flying capabilities were virtually nonexistent, seeing as how the slightest things seemed to distract him. There was a solid reason Harper was only a reserve for the team.

"That's a shame," McAvoy hesitated, and for a moment Draco could feel his wordless imploring for a change of mind. Finally he gave in and said through a sigh, "Ah, well… that's alright, then. It'll make Harper happy, I suppose. I'll let Urquhart know."

McAvoy took a sudden left towards the main corridor, and Draco veered straight into the direction of the library to find Granger, not a doubt in his mind that she would be there. He was even smiling as he went, astounded by his great luck.

There had been a time when Quidditch had seemed all-important, but this year his membership to the team meant next to nothing. In the grand scheme of what his life had recently morphed into, snitches and broomsticks appeared as nothing more than a waste of time. But the practice did provide him with an excuse to beg off his lesson with Granger, assuming, of course, that she would allow such a pass. His goal was to convince her to postpone the meeting for Saturday, which was when the students' first trip to Hogsmeade would take place. Achieving such a thing would be like pulling teeth, he knew… But if he could do it… He could buy himself some time, along with an iron alibi to keep his name in the clear.

After clearing the rubble from his mind during Transfiguration, Draco had suddenly remembered a card he still had up his sleeve that he had all but forgotten about.

It was a risky plan – one that _definitely_ wouldn't work, in the technical sense – but perhaps it would relax the Dark Lord's apparent need for action. If he could only manipulate Granger in the right direction, she might just unwittingly make herself extremely useful.

As he'd perfectly expected, Granger was indeed in the library. He found her nestled in a window-seat in the section where (for some reason never known to Draco) a few shelves of muggle books were kept. The sight of them made Draco sneer, but he quickly stifled the negative expression; he would need to be on his least-offensive behavior if he wanted things to pan out in his favor.

He stopped as he neared her, realizing with an odd jolt in his chest that she was sleeping. Part of him mocked her for ducking out of class for the sole purpose of something as boring as a snooze in the library, and yet the other part of him felt something quite different from the derisive jabbing.

For a moment he simply looked down at her, his face quite empty of expression. He felt rather like he was seeing her objectively for the first time (unless, of course, one counted her arrival at the Yule Ball, during which he hadn't recognized her and thought her quite beautiful. But, needless to say, Draco had forgotten all about that – rather willingly); Perhaps this was because her eyes were closed, and therefore incapable of putting on display all of her usual defiance and chagrin that grated especially on Draco's sensible nerves. Or maybe it was nothing more than a trick of the soft light that filtered down on her through the latticed window behind her, providing a startling backdrop that made her stand out as something so… peaceful. He would have said innocent, but she'd always seemed innocent to Draco, annoyingly so. The difference was that here the innocence wasn't half so repugnant and self-righteous as it usually was, and he found it difficult, all of a sudden, to think of her as boorish or square, or any of the other plain adjectives he typically connected the sight of her with.

Her knees were pulled up to her chest, her contented face resting in the crook of her elbow; she simply looked like she belonged here – in this place, under this sunlight, surrounded by these books, probably dreaming of delicate, wonderful things in front of that great latticed window.

No, he had never seen her objectively before, never like this.

He swallowed hard and clenched his eyes shut for a moment, yet again attempting to sweep such unwelcome thoughts from his mind. He was almost angry at himself for seeing her this way, and he tried to pull himself together, to remember that he had had a reason for coming here in the first place. He hadn't come to gawk at the sleeping Mudblood, that was for certain. So, he pulled his Transfiguration notebook out of his bag and tore an old, graded assignment into three equal pieces.

He balled them up quietly, not wanting the noise to wake her before he could have his bit of fun.

" _Granger_ ," he whispered, and when she failed to respond he chucked the first bit of parchment at her. It bounced off of her shoulder, and still there was no answer.

"Granger," he sang softly, chuckling under his breath as the next ball he aimed pelted her forehead and landed back at his feet. Her eyelids began to flutter, and still he threw the third one, which flew straight to her lips and ricocheted off in a flash, tumbling under one of the bookcases as though it had given her a kiss and then gotten quite bashful about it.

She moaned, eyebrows meeting over eyes that were still half-shut.

"Draco?" she said softly.

His heart gave a massive thud in his chest. Since when did she stop calling him Malfoy? He tried to make himself angry at her liberty, but it was a genuine question nonetheless. Something about the way his given name sounded, ballooning from her lips like some forbidden incantation, rubbed his nerves. Not necessarily in a _bad_ way, but Draco would have sworn on the four fingers of his right hand that it hadn't felt _good_ , either. His first instinct was to say something antagonistic, something that would make her angry, but he forced himself to remember that he hadn't found her to argue any more than he'd found her to watch her sleep.

"It's time to wake up, Granger," he said, his voice rising to a natural level. "You can't slack away the hours, you know."

Her eyes were fully open now, and he noted that the moment she recognized him, the corners of her mouth were tugged down into a frown. She seemed to ponder for a moment, and then she gasped.

"Oh, _no!_ " she said with the utmost feeling. "I hadn't meant to fall asleep – what time is it?"

Draco hid his grin of hilarity with a forced countenance of seriousness.

"It's nearly three, Granger," he said, in a rather convincing tone of annoyance. "I came looking for you after lunch. Slughorn heard you'd ducked out of your obligation and he told me to bring you to his office. He didn't look too pleased, either."

Draco found himself positively gleeful as Hermione's expression morphed steadily into one of abject horror.

" _Fuck!"_ She cried breathily, and Draco's mouth – only moments ago as solemn as he could make it – split into a wide, cheerfully astonished smile.

"Who knew you had _that_ in you, Granger? Up until last week I'd never heard you say so much as 'bollocks' and now here you are, spewing obscenities like a common urchin."

"I haven't got the time, Malfoy," Hermione said, panting slightly in all her hysteria. "That'll be two classes I've missed now. And all I've got as an excuse is that I fell asleep, in the sodding _library."_

She was moving as she spoke with stunning speed, pulling her sweater over her shirt so frantically that her head was stuck for a moment at the collar, her arms flapping wildly in search of the sleeves. Malfoy, meanwhile, was thoroughly entertained, but he thought it was best to end it now before there was no pulling her back from the brink of insanity.

He chuckled and stepped forward to right the collar of her sweater, and as she broke through her curls popped free and fell over her shoulders once again. In the sunlight her hair almost resembled the color of mahogany.

"I was only joking, Granger." He said in rich tones of the highest amusement. "Relax, you're fine. Transfiguration's just let out and there's still ten minutes at least before the next class."

She stopped struggling immediately and met his eyes, still dancing with mirth. It was an expression that she had literally never seen on him before.

"You're laughing," she observed as he stepped back, still chuckling.

"Well, that _was_ rather funny of me." He said smugly. At his feet she noticed the balls of parchment scattered on the floor.

"You were throwing things at me." She accused. "I felt them, they woke me up."

"Are we playing a game, or something? Is it my turn to point out something obvious?" Malfoy responded, settling his expression into one of sarcastic perplexity. "Okay, I'll have a go… You've got unbridled control issues that'll probably give you a heart attack by the time you're thirty. There – how'd I do?"

"That wasn't a very nice way to wake up, Malfoy." Was all she said, glowering at him.

"Yes, well, I never could resist toying with wildlife." Draco said smoothly. "That's probably why I was never able to convince my nanny to take me to the zoo, now I think on it."

He watched her eyes narrow, and she inclined her head a little to the side, clearly puzzling something over.

"What is it, Granger?" He taunted, "Are you struck by my god-like good looks? I know – they can be a little hard to grasp at times, especially for the weak-minded."

In all actuality, Hermione really was more than a little taken aback by the way he looked at the moment. He was _smiling_ , and his eyes were completely void of their usual disdain… His manner now reminded her of how he had been during the start of their first Potions lesson, when he'd teased her, almost playfully, for the outline she'd given him.

"I just feel as if you're up to something…" she trailed off, and Draco's charming visage immediately sobered as he realized that he'd forgotten, once again, that he'd come here for a reason.

"Actually," he began, refocusing his attention. "I came to ask you to postpone our next meeting until Saturday."

Granger's eyes flashed with knowing irritation. _Of course,_ she thought, momentarily confused by the disappointment that bloomed in her chest, _he only wants something._

"Saturday is our first trip to Hogsmeade." She said sharply. "What on Earth could possess you to hope that I might even consider wasting that time holed up with you in a dingy cellar?"

"I can't do it today, Granger," Malfoy said, allowing a pleading note to saturate his voice. "Saturday is the only day that I can do it."

Hermione raised her eyebrows at his tone, caught off guard. "Are you even going to bother explaining why _today_ is no good?" She asked plaintively. "Or were you just going to leave me to fill in the gaps for you?"

"Quidditch practice was called before lunch, and I've got no choice but to be there, or be chucked off the team." Draco lied, visualizing the passage beneath the Whomping Willow which led to the Shrieking Shack, and the package that would be waiting there for him.

Hermione groaned in a level of exasperation that mildly surprised Draco. Why did she always have to be so passionate? "What _is_ it with you people and Quidditch? It's all Harry and Ron seem to care about, never mind their _studies_ … Then again, why should any of you care, right? As long as Hermione's around to pick up the slack."

"Well, unlike the sniveling Martyr and his faithful sidekick," Draco spat angrily, responding to her frustration with his own. " _My_ family expects me to shine in all bloody areas. If I lose my spot on the team, my father would throttle me – probably literally, if he weren't locked up in a cell, that is."

It was a lie, technically speaking, but there was enough truth to what Draco said that his words echoed soundly, and Hermione yielded, although she did so begrudgingly.

"Alright," She breathed, only half-sure herself about why she was agreeing. "Do what you must."

"Wait – really?" He'd been hoping for this, but she had agreed so easily that Draco was sure that she'd take it back next moment.

"Yes, really." Hermione snapped. "Don't question me or else I might change my mind. But you'd better be there on Saturday, Malfoy. If you skive out on me, I'll see red, I'm warning you. Don't make me regret this."

"I'll be there," said Draco, and he meant it; he had to be there, if he wanted to keep a clear name.

And then, simply because she felt the need to fill the silence that threatened to engulf them, Hermione added, "At least you were honest. So, thanks for that… I suppose."

"I live to serve," Draco said, tipping a sarcastic hat to her, and with that he left, suddenly afraid of the guilt that had washed up from Merlin knew where.

 _She shouldn't be so trusting_ , he thought as he left her.

* * *

Hermione gathered her things and left the library, heading towards the greenhouses for Herbology. Afterwards, she decided to skip lunch to read over the notes she'd managed to borrow from Parvati that went over the material she'd missed in Transfiguration, and during her free period she stayed in her room to get some much needed headway on her coursework. She went to the rest of her classes as normal for the rest of the day, and went to sleep straight after dinner.

Up until the moment she drifted into slumber, she thought of her interaction with Malfoy at intervals, two aspects standing out from the rest of the encounter:

Over and over she pictured his manner as he'd brought up his family and what they expected of him, how tense and angry he had suddenly become. It was different from the anger or resentment that was typical for someone as capricious as Malfoy – more real somehow – almost tangible, as if she'd felt them herself.

And then there was that feeling that she hadn't quite gotten the full picture. She wouldn't have necessarily been surprised, and it was simply a fleeting notion, but she was sure that Malfoy hadn't been fully honest with her at all.

The next day during Charms, Hermione became aware of the frosty air that hung around Ron and Harry. They'd hardly spoken to her during breakfast, not even Ron to ask who had died as he usually did when she pursued her issue of the _Prophet_.

"Ron, you're doing that wrong," Hermione said, hoping that casual behavior would be enough to bring them out of whatever stupor they'd fallen into. "You're supposed to make more of an "S", what you're doing is more like a sideways "W"."

"I'll figure it out, Hermione, thanks," Ron replied dryly. Hermione glanced at Harry, who was staring determinedly in the opposite direction. It was customary for him to give her a commiserating grin whenever Ron was in one of his moods, but now she felt as if Harry rather approved of Ron's manner.

"Okay," Hermione sighed deeply, pushing the goblet she was meant to conjure a stream of water into farther away from her to emphasize her seriousness. "Have I done something wrong, or are you two simply suffering through another round of monthlies?"

Ron's mouth slacked with incredulousness, but she was pleased to see that he was looking her in the eye once more. "Are you serious?" He exclaimed, and Harry hushed him under his breath as Professor Flitwich shot a warning glance in their direction. "We should be the ones asking _you_ that question!"

"As usual, Ronald, I haven't a clue what you're on about."

"Ron's right, Hermione." Harry said, albeit in a far more reasonable tone. "You didn't show up for McGonagall's class yesterday, and when I tried to find out why in Herbology you brushed me off. We didn't even _see_ you the rest of the day, and then you were like an animated corpse at dinner."

"Right," Ron said, nodding emphatically. " _Then_ you walked straight past us in the Common Room-

"Where we were waiting for you," Harry cut in, and again Ron nodded.

"Right – where we were waiting for you – without a single word!"

Hermione frowned in consternation, sifting through her memories of yesterday's events, trying to remember any of what they'd said. She couldn't recall brushing Harry off at all, and she was sure that she hadn't been _that_ stoic during dinner (hadn't she laughed at Ginny's joke about Umbridge and the centaurs? Or had she only thought about laughing?), but she couldn't very well deny it, knowing how deeply she'd been embroiled in her own thoughts.

"I don't know how you see it, Hermione," Harry began again, in a tone which made Hermione feel like a small child being lectured for ruining her appetite before dinner. "But to us, it seemed pretty obvious that you were upset with us about something."

"And given your emotional track record, that could be about anything," Ron threw in, simply for good measure. Hermione gave him a cautionary glare, and Ron visibly shrank, muttering something that sounded like, "got a bit carried off, sorry."

After a brief pause Hermione's indignation deflated.

"I'm sorry, alright?" she said finally. "I'm not angry with either of you, I promise. I've just been feeling a little under the weather. Which is, incidentally, why I asked McGonagall to let me out of yesterday's lesson. I only needed some time to sort through everything, I hadn't meant to blow you off. I suppose I've been a bit distracted."

She watched as they exchanged deliberating glances, while wondering to herself when Harry and Ron had become so sensitive.

"Do you forgive me?" she asked, grinning meekly.

Ron broke into a grin. "Yeah, alright."

She glanced at Harry, who said, "Why not? Only, you should tell us what's going on from now on, that way we don't have to guess."

Hermione couldn't pass up such an opening, and she eyed Harry brazenly as she asked, "While we're on that subject, is there anything _you'd_ like to tell us, Harry? Anything you've got going on that you'd like to share?"

His gaze shifted ever so slightly, just enough so that Hermione could tell he was no longer looking her directly in the eye, but rather at some spot on her forehead.

"No," he said aloofly, his thoughts instantly veering to the meeting he'd had with Dumbledore. "Not really, Hermione. I'm an open book… Why d'you ask?"

"Only wondering," Hermione said, in a voice that was equally casual.

They went back to their practicing, Ron still slashing the air wildly with his wand and Harry standing stationary, staring at his goblet as though hoping the water would appear there on its own.

"Lavender wants me to take her to Madam Pudifoot's this weekend." Ron said, shuddering violently. "I told her we might, if we can find the time, so I'll expect you two to detain us for as long as possible."

"We'll barricade you in the Three Broomsticks, if that's what it takes." Harry said sympathetically, remembering the horrendous experience he'd had there with Ginny the first time he'd ever been allowed to go into Hogsmeade. She'd told him she only wanted to go for a laugh, but still they'd stayed for hours, drinking mug after mug of tea so sweet it made Harry's teeth ache just recalling it.

"Actually," Hermione said in a small voice, "I won't be able to go to Hogsmeade, after all."

"What?" Ron cried, "Hermione, if you tell me you've ' _got too much to do_ ', I swear I'll throttle you. Break free of the chains that bind you, already! Grab some freedom!"

"I don't have much of a choice," Hermione argued, and, for some reason even she couldn't justify, she avoided the truth of agreeing to dedicate that time to Malfoy in the dungeon. "I _do_ have loads to do, Ron. Face it, I've got more work on my plate than either of you two combined, and I need to get on top of it all before I completely lose it."

There was enough truth in her words that Hermione had no problem adding the heavy weight of conviction to them.

As Ron opened his fat mouth to retort, Harry spoke up. "Lay off her, Ron. She's right, and she knows far better than you what she needs to do." But Ron still held that belligerent gleam in his eye. "Just let it go, mate. I'll do my best to keep you away from Pudifoot's, if that's what you're worried about. Plus I'll have Ginny with me, and I'll get her to promise to good behavior. Just… don't start bickering, please. At least not while I'm around."

Harry saw Ron sneak a sidelong glance at Hermione from the corner of his eye, an expression there that Harry had long ago become familiar with: there was disappointment of the acutest kind, mixed in with a sort of forlornness that made Harry feel almost sorry for his best friend.

Sometime around four years ago Harry had realized the extent of Ron's feelings for Hermione, when he saw the look of wild horror on Ron's face as they realized Hermione had been attacked by Slytherin's monster. Harry had been terrified, as well, but it was nothing to Ron's reaction. His own concern came from a place of pure friendship, while Ron's had been significantly stronger, so much so that Harry, even at that age, had known there was something more to Ron's esteem of her.

He put up a good front with Lavender – so good, in fact, that at times Harry believed Ron genuinely loved her – but there was a certain conviction in Harry's chest that it was all to make Hermione jealous.

He couldn't be sure if it even worked or not. There were moments when Hermione was incapable of masking her dislike of Lavender, but then again, many people seemed to have that reaction towards the fair-haired Gryffindor.

Harry wasn't sure why, but the thought of Ron and Hermione becoming a couple made him feel a sense of incalculable loneliness; perhaps it was the notion which followed it that told him that while he was away, his two best friends in all the world would still be perfectly content, absolutely unified, without him there. It was a selfish feeling, but it was one which was hard to rise above.

And he _would_ have to leave – that was something Harry had very little doubt about.

Only the night before last Harry had taken his first lesson with Dumbledore, and while the substance of it hadn't been quite as dire as he'd expected, the things he had seen and learned had somehow become harbingers to a sinking feeling that the end was fast approaching. He honestly estimated that by the end of this school year, he would have to leave them all behind – Ron, Hermione… and Ginny.

"Mr. Potter, a demonstration, if you please." Professor Flitwick had wobbled over to the trio's table, unnoticed by any of them as only the top of his head was visible over the table's surface. "Let's see how you've gotten along."

"Er – right," Harry squared his shoulders and waved his wand in what he thought was the proper way. " _Aguamenti."_

The tip of his wand erupted in a thick blue sludge that doused the poor professor with such force as to knock him over.

"Sorry Professor!" Harry immediately went around the table and picked Flitwick up, setting him to rights as Hermione scoured him clean with a simple wave of her wand.

"That's quite alright, Harry," said Professor Flitwick, blinking dazedly. "Although, I daresay you _must_ practice, before you kill someone."

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

I know I've said all this before, but I want to give yet another genuine thanks to those of you who've followed and reviewed this story!

Throughout the next few chapters there will be some pretty big events coming up in the story. Some of you might remember a few of them from HPB, strictly speaking, but I'll have to twist the original plot to fit my version, although I doubt that comes as much of a shock to you good people; this is fanfiction, is it not? And if Fifty Shades of Grey can be called a work of fanfic brilliance, my story should at least be able to stand on its own, right?

Anyway, as always I'd appreciate any words of wisdom, any advice or criticism any of you may have to offer.

Yours Truly,

Emma Perry


	7. Guilt, You Cheeky Bastard

Chapter Seven –

It is true that most people evil people are not born that way – but it's likely that most of us understand that. In fact, one might say that there is a sort of insatiable curiosity amongst humans, having to do with the warped minds of monsters. What happened to make them this way? Were they abused? Did they torture small animals as a child? We ask ourselves these questions, it seems, to try to diagnose the mind of a killer, and when we find that one does in fact, seem to be born with the natural inclination towards evil things, we almost enjoy being baffled by it.

Muggles especially appear to obsess over motives and reasons and causes. True-crime television programs typically do better than your average sitcom in terms of viewers, for instance, and any bona fide horrific act of violence can achieve national coverage within a matter of forty-eight hours, and that's a generous estimation. Whether the monster in question is Charles Manson or Victor Lustig, they crave to know what makes that person tick, what makes them do what they've done.

That same curiosity thrived in the Wizarding world as well, as Draco could perfectly well attest, but the stark difference lay in the level of fear that came along with the ascendance of a new monster. Perhaps that had something to do with magic itself, which allows the boundaries of horror to expand a hundred-fold, at least. Either which way, the resulting craving to understand was still just as high, only people talked much less about these things in Draco's world. They couldn't even say Voldemort's name – and while gossip certainly circulated – the most terrifying things were not necessarily broken down and stripped raw the way they were by muggles. The terrifying things were hidden from, they were banished from thought, if only because the sheer power of fear that radiates from the monsters in the magical world is boggling in and of itself. It can drive a person crazy trying to reason it out.

In a way, Draco envied the muggles for this. Only in moments of painful honesty with himself – usually when he was close enough to sleep that his mind went places without his full permission – did Draco realize how easy it would be to be a muggle after living in this world. To know nothing of the real extent of horror must have been a blissful thing. He could even pity them, while thinking along these lines, simply because when the Dark finally overcame the Light, that thin veil that separated the mundane from the magical would be torn away, and there was no telling how the muggles would be able to cope as such a sudden, drastic awakening would be thrust upon them, ready or not.

As it has been said, Draco was not always particularly aware of the blackest side of life, as he was now. That blackness was slowly revealed to him as he aged – or, rather, Draco had been exposed to it at a consistently increasing rate, the older he got. He was also made to understand that he could never shy away from the things that were forced into his knowledge and understand; because that was just the way his life was stacked for him. There had never been any thought, any decision presented to Draco. There was no colored pill to take, no vial of potion to willfully drink. So, naturally, after years of having his opinions decided for him, his fears and hopes chosen before he was even born, Draco had become quite adept at keeping himself in the dark.

Even as he went through the impossibly stuffy, dank passageway which led from the base of the Whomping Willow to the Shrieking Shack only a minutes' walk from Hogsmeade as Wednesday wore into the hour before noon struck, he would not admit that the fear was what drove him – fear of failing, of death, of allowing his parents to perish. Although the fear was so potent that it was hard to ignore, he was able to tell himself that he was simply afraid of being caught, that the fear he felt now was nothing more than the sort of anxiety he might feel trying to break curfew at the risk of detention.

He _was_ afraid of being caught, so it was done easily enough; at one point the passage beneath the Willow had been blocked up, but Draco had heard rumors around the school that it had been opened up again. Some said it was on Dumbledore's orders, others said it was Fred and George Weasley who'd done it, before they fled the school after releasing enchanted fireworks throughout the halls of Hogwarts. Draco couldn't make heads or tails of it, but he knew it didn't matter how the passage had become accessible again; the one thing he could be certain of was that the passage was common knowledge enough to start an array of rumors, which meant that it was probably being watched, and he'd had no way of telling whether it was under scrutiny when he'd immobilized the Willow and crawled in. He'd gone under the cover of a particularly well-done Disillusionment Charm (if he did say so himself) – and thankfully students kept a pretty wide berth from the tree out of habit, so there was at least a chance that he hadn't been seen by any passersby. His real concern was for Filch, or Snape (who was apparently disposed to follow Draco around whenever he felt so inclined), or even Dumbledore.

Plus, there was a rather illogical, yet crushing, sense of impending attack from anyone who might be waiting in the Shack for him. Draco knew that the Death Eaters must be aware of the necklace he'd purchased, and his mother's promise to have it delivered to the Shack for him to pick up whenever he had the chance. It would not surprise him – especially after receiving his father's letter – if he found Macnair, or even the watery-eyed Wormtail there, waiting like some muggle loan shark's crony, ready to shatter both his kneecaps as encouragement for results.

However, as Draco popped his head up from the passageway under the floorboards, revolving his head slowly to get a look at every angle of the room, he found that he was quite alone; he pulled himself up and dusted off the front of his robes, exponentially relieved to find no Death Eaters or vagabonds or fellow students looking to skive – only the necklace, sitting on one of the ancient tea-tables which squatted in what had probably once been some sort of parlor.

Even through the layers of the burlap cloth it had been wrapped in several times over, the necklace seemed to glint maliciously from the inside. As he picked it up and stowed it in his robes, Draco felt as if he were carrying a living child, filled to the brim with evil that had been born into it. Once it was under his robe the Disillusionment Charm concealed it from view, but he still felt as though it would make its presence known somehow.

On his way back through the passageway, his mind worked furiously, trying to figure out the ideal time to return; he already had the plan worked out, how he would use the Imperius Curse on Madam Rosmerta to force her to corner any lone student who would happen into the bathroom (excluding Potter and the two Weasley's, of course) – there, Rosmerta would curse _them_ , and send them on their way to Dumbledore, necklace in tow – but he wasn't sure when he could make it back to the Shack, with enough time to slip into Hogsmeade without being detected.

Even if he managed to make his way into the Three Broomsticks and lay the curse upon Rosmerta, and even if _she_ could turn the mission over onto someone else, Draco had not a single hope that the plan would work. He was even banking on the fact that the necklace wouldn't make it into the castle, which was fine with him. If the necklace could be discovered on a student returning from Hogsmeade, while he was sitting in the dungeon with Granger, there could be no doubt amongst whoever investigated the incident that he'd had nothing to do with it. Plus, a discovery such as that would make its way to Snape, who would _know_ it had been Draco, and from Snape the news would flow to Voldemort.

It wasn't very ideal, and there would be drawbacks even if the plan worked out the way he wanted it to; Voldemort would sneer at something so clumsy as a cursed necklace, and he would be angered by it – but he would know that Draco was acting, that he was listening to his orders.

It wasn't as if Draco had much of a choice.

Although no one appeared waiting for him at the base of the Whomping Willow, ready to slap a body-binding jinx onto him and cart him into the Headmaster's office, Draco made his way back to his dormitory with a heart that threatened to burst from his chest and explode in front of his very eyes. The halls were mostly clear, with almost every student taking their lunch in the Great Hall by now, so he wasn't worried as the Disillusionment Charm began to wear off.

He bolted through the Slytherin Common Room and collapsed on his bed the moment after stuffing the opal necklace under his clothes piled in his trunk, drawing the hangings of his four-poster shut around him. His heart still hammered in his chest and the back of his head felt slick with sweat against his pillow.

He forced his eyes closed and began to visualize that wall which built itself, laying cement and positioning brick after textured brick. As he emptied his mind of all worded thought, however, one more slipped through the closing gap, a wailing sort of thought, twisted with confusion: _What am I doing?_

* * *

Not once, not twice, but three times Hermione made the attempt to see Dumbledore. One could say that the first time didn't count, as all she'd really done was try to catch his eye during dinner Thursday evening, but there was no Dumbledore present, and therefore no eye to catch. She went to his office after dismissing the rest of her fellow Gryffindors, but was unable to reason with the gargoyle that kept his office under guard. After her final class on Friday, she once again found herself in the corridor, already dressed for Slughorn's dinner party as the stoic Gargoyle which guarded the Headmaster's office resisted plea after plea.

She'd even tried out a few passwords – everything from _firewhisky_ to _notebook_ – until the sound of a misty, dreamy voice broke her from her string of attempts (that would have possibly gone on for many more minutes had the voice not spoken).

"Hello my dear, may I help…?" Professor Trewlaney stopped short, her magnified eyes narrowing to slits behind her glasses as she recognized Hermione. When she next spoke, her voice had dropped to subzero temperatures "Oh. It is you."

Hermione resisted the impulse to roll her eyes. Apparently the Divinations professor had not quite found the will to forgive Hermione for the time she'd pretty much declared the woman a crack-pot and a fraud, and stormed from the class three years ago. She was more surprised than anything else, however, as she rarely saw Trelawney about the castle.

"Hello, Professor Trelawney," Hermione said, trying to keep her voice meek. "I was only trying to see the Headmaster. He wasn't at dinner, you see."

Trelawney tutted and heaved a dramatic sigh that caused the beads of her many necklaces to rattle against her bosom. "It is a pity that you gave up the chance to hone your sight. Perhaps if you had stayed under my willing wing you would not have wasted your efforts here."

"And how, exactly, am I wasting my time?" Hermione asked, and on second thought added the more respectful term, "Professor?"

"Professor Dumbledore will be away from the castle for a time. I am not sure when he will be back."

Hermione wanted to ask why the professor didn't just consult her Inner Eye, but she knew that wouldn't go over well. Besides, after seeing Trelawney turned inside out by Umbridge only last year, Hermione had a hard time finding the will to provoke her, even if she was a batty fraud.

Instead of insulting her, Hermione settled for, "Well, alright then, I suppose. Thank you, Professor Trelawney."

Hermione turned and walked away, footsteps echoing through the Hall. She had gone only a few steps when Professor Trelawney called her back. Hermione stopped and turned back, and the professor ambled forward until she stood directly in front of her. She was wringing her hands and looking at Hermione with a slightly fogged look of confusion in her eye.

"I've just remembered something…" She began slowly, her voice one again taking on that mystical ring. "I don't… I had a dream, and it concerned… _you,_ my dear."

Hermione audibly scoffed, unable to help herself. She'd heard this sort of thing before from Trelawney, and she wasn't about to stick around and hear about her impending death.

"If it's alright with you, Professor, I think I'll leave myself in the dark." Hermione said, but Trelawney's fingers enclosed around her wrist, gently, but firmly.

"No, I see now! I've run into you on purpose, my dear. I was meant to speak with you today." Hermione rolled her eyes and Trelawney, to Hermione's vast surprise, reciprocated. Hermione hadn't thought of Professor Trelawney as the type for eye-rolling. "Really, Miss Granger, if you doubt my sincerity, ask yourselves what the odds are that I would meet you here? I only came down from my tower on the merest of whims, fancying a walk. And here I find you, the very person I dreamt of only last night."

Hermione pulled herself free of the professor's grip as politely as was possible, and folded her arms across her chest. "Well?" she questioned. "What was the dream, then? If you must."

"Not here… I need to be in my office." And before Hermione could protest, the Professor had passed her, heading unmistakably in the direction of her classroom, quite at the other end of the castle. She thought longingly of diving out of sight and continuing on her way to meet Harry and Ginny in the Entrance Hall, but natural curiosity (the bane of any Granger's existence) prompted her feet to follow. It took many minutes to reach the Divination tower, and even after they'd mounted the ladder into the heavily-perfumed room, Trelawney went through the business of making herself a cup of tea, which Hermione declined politely.

Finally the Professor sat down at her desk across from Hermione, who immediately set to questioning her forward.

"The dream, Professor?"

Professor Trelawney's eyes looked down and away, focusing on some point on the stone floor. She was deep in thought, Hermione could tell, and it was somehow a different sort of thoughtfulness from the one she was normally overtaken by during one of her classes. Her voice as she spoke was slow and methodical.

"There was a great black pike – so tall that its tip was lost in the clouds above - with swaths of green fabric wrapped around its base… A boy appeared on the ground in front of it, weeping and tearing at his clothes. The fabric ensnared him, kept him from moving. In the distance – beyond the pike – a door opened atop a set of steps. A faceless woman came from the door and took the stairs down towards the boy." Hermione felt shivers quake through her thighs, up her spine, and she felt suddenly chilled. "She knelt by the boy, and she touched his shoulder, and all at once a smile lit his face and he stopped resisting the snares, and they began to fall away. A voice called something out – it came from the black pike – I don't know what it said - and the smile left the boy as quickly as it had come. He began to change into a wolf. The woman begged him to stay – to stay with her – but he did not. He changed."

The Professor's words became steadily more forced, more frantic, and the chill grew in Hermione until she felt as if she might unravel. The dream, whatever it was, had very little to do with Hermione's fear; it was the professor's earnestness, her voice, which had seemed to grow thick. Hermione had never seen a person this way, and it was jarring to watch Trelawney unfold before her. Fraud or not, this was definitely the creepiest thing Hermione had ever experienced.

"The boy changed, like I said, into a wolf. White fur he had – the whitest, purest fur I've ever seen – and it splashed with red as he bit into the girl's heart – right through her chest – and took the life from her." Trelawney looked Hermione right in her eyes. "She wasn't quite dead however, the girl. She simply drew her hands to her chest and sobbed as she backed away. The wolf watched her go. The green arms of fabric began to swirl next to him, and the wolf jerked his head and released his jaw, and sent the girl's heart flying into them."

Hermione realized that her mouth had begun to hang open just a little, and she snapped it shut as she shifted on her cushion, as though to wake herself up.

"That's certainly interesting, Professor, but really, I'm not –

Professor Trelawney drowned Hermione's words out with her own.

"When I awoke this morning, the dream faded within seconds, as dreams often do. It hadn't seemed important," Trelawney said, at first seeming to speak more to herself, but as she went on, her attention focused sharply back on Hermione. "Even when you and I first spoke, I had no thought of it. But the girl in my dream was most definitely you, my dear."

"I appreciate the time you've taken to tell me all of this – sincerely. But I really must be going. I'll be late, and my friends are waiting for me." Hermione tried.

"This dream should concern you, my dear!" Trelawney cried, and that emphatic edge had crept back into her voice. "It is obviously an important message from _the Beyond!"_

"And that message would be?" Hermione asked plaintively.

Professor Trelawney blinked, her lips puttering a little as though she were trying to blow raspberries in Hermione's general direction. "Well, I don't know – precisely why you should analyse – _really_ Miss Granger, have you learned nothing of dream interpretation? It is not a matter of simply _knowing_ anything."

"Well, no Professor, I cannot say that I excel at dream analyses," Hermione grinned and rose to leave. "Again, I appreciate the time you took – but I'm the sort of girl to take things as they come, you see. Even if you chanced to predict my doom moments from now I wouldn't care to know about it, Professor, as there wouldn't be much I could do to prevent Fate, would there?"

Trelawney gathered her many shawls around her, looking offended beyond reason.

"No matter," she said in tones of preserved dignity. "I have become rather… accustomed, to skepticism, especially from your type. It is your decision if you do not heed my premonition."

"I'm not at all skeptical, Professor." Hermione replied. "That would require thinking about the matter, and I've made up my mind not to. Things will happen as they will, after all. I've got enough to worry about without adding the inevitable to that list. I'll go insane, trying to question everything."

Hermione allowed her feet to carry her to the trapdoor, weaving around cushions and tea-tables draped in copious amounts of silk.

"Miss Granger," called the professor, rather unwillingly. Hermione looked back over her shoulder questioningly. Trelawney drew her shawls even further around her shoulders as if to swaddle herself and said, "Be careful."

Hermione grinned; wasn't she always careful? Still, though, it was somewhat touching that Trelawney seemed to care at all. She supposed, batty or not, this may have been the first moment she saw her as a teacher.

"I will. Good day, Professor Trelawney."

Sybil watched her go, her feelings at the peak of frustration and premonition so strong that her stomach fluttered, and she was inclined to believe it would be long time before she was able to banish those feelings completely.

The girl's head disappeared under the opening in the floor, and after sometime just sitting at her desk Sybil stood up and fetched a deck of worn cards from the spindly little table by the window nearest her, and moved to a sunset orange cushion near the blazing hearth, intending to ask nothing but the most serious of questions.

However, within moments Sybil began to think of other things, and wound up asking the cards what she might hope to expect for her Christmas lot.

* * *

As Saturday morning dawned over Hogwarts castle, the sky was so thick with clouds that the sun was distinguishable only as a spot over the horizon that was slightly brighter than the rest. The day was still bright – crisp, even – with the beginnings of a flurry cascading delicate snowflakes upon the ground already swirling with frost, but Hermione, who was already predisposed to such a mood, felt as if the atmosphere was rather oppressive with melancholia. Although, she knew that even if the sky had been a cloudless, robin's egg blue and the outside echoed with the sounds of birds' songs, she would have felt something oppressive in its sight.

From her window she could see groups of students in their black school cloaks filter towards the main gates. They were the last of the students to leave, the morning having already worn closer to the hour before noon, and although Hermione knew that her friends would have departed soon after the breakfast she'd skipped, she couldn't stop herself from trying to distinguish them from the crowd, which was pointless anyway, considering how far down the heads of the students were. She wondered for the thousandth time if they were still upset that she hadn't joined them. She was sure that skipping breakfast with them probably wasn't a step in the right direction on that front, but she hadn't been able to bear the thought of Harry's disappointed expression or Ron's pestering about why, exactly, she felt such a need to stay behind.

Harry had asked his own questions during the party in Slughorn's chambers last night, but thankfully Hermione had been able to dodge most of them, the way she'd dodged Cormac McLaggen, who, for reasons unknown to Hermione, had taken to following her about and smirking as if he knew some secret about her. She'd arrived late to the party, after that befuddling conversation she'd had with Professor Trelawney, and she'd made sure to leave as early as possible, dragging Harry and Ginny along with her. Ron, who'd managed to squeeze an invite out of Lavender, had hung around until Slughorn called the party to a close Hermione assumed, as it seemed like Ron would be the type to enjoy such a gathering as the one Slughorn put together.

Now, she couldn't have said why, but sitting in her room as she was, watching everyone else take their freedom, she felt somehow traitorous. Perhaps it was the knowledge that she was giving up her time with her friends for someone as inevitably ungrateful as Draco Malfoy was bound to be, so, naturally, at least once every handful of hours over the past few days she'd resolved to call the whole thing off. She'd decided at least a dozen different times that she would leave Malfoy to the wolves – tell him, so sorry, but you'll have to wait – and face whatever consequences Slughorn felt to be appropriate for choosing Quidditch over his lessons. After all, why should she have to deal with the repercussions of Malfoy's decision?

Still, however, after every determined resolution, Hermione found herself here at the end of them all, curled up in the window seat, watching everyone third year and up vacate the castle. She told herself it was because she couldn't imagine much fun coming from the visit to Hogsmeade, anyway; it was common knowledge that over half the shops had been shut up and abandoned. If a walk through Hogsmeade would have been anything like her trip to Diagon Alley with the Weasley family, Hermione could do without it. She'd seen enough boarded windows and chained doors to serve her a lifetime, and she would rather have avoided such poignant evidence of the hopeless state of things, thank you very much.

In reality it had been the memory of Draco's words, his moment of half-baked honesty when he'd raged about his family's expectations that called her back from her resolve. She could relate, in all actuality, and besides that, she'd never really considered what it must have been like to have Lucius Malfoy for a father. Or, rather, she hadn't considered that Draco was the sort of individual grounded enough to realize and feel the monstrosities of such a man.

She lingered by the window for another hour, at some point opening her copy of _Jane Eyre_ once again to pass the time, and then she rose to dress herself absentmindedly, thinking of how to proceed with the upcoming lesson, distracting herself with logistics and plans and such.

At that moment, as Hermione was pulling on a simple cotton t-shirt and stepping in front of her mirror to pin her hair back and tame her curls, Draco Malfoy was ducking back under the floorboards of the Shrieking Shack, after a visit to the Three Broomsticks. He ran through the passageway at top speeds, stopping only to dry-heave at the will of his empty, terrified stomach.

* * *

Hermione had taken the same stool she'd chosen the first time she waited for Malfoy to meet her in the dungeon. She'd counted on his lateness and came prepared, pulling out her Herbology text and falling into studying as it was second nature.

Eventually however, she glanced up at the clock above Slughorn's desk, realizing with a jolt of indignation that Malfoy had outdone himself this time: half an hour had already passed, and a cold fury stole over her. She hadn't a thought of staying a moment longer, and she immediately set to packing her things furiously, muttering all the while.

"My fault, really. Should have known better, Draco Malfoy, keep a promise?" She pivoted on her heel and strode to the dungeon door. "You're a _fool_ , Hermione. No one to blame but yourself."

And as she threw the door open, hoping beyond all reason that it wasn't too late to join her friends in Hogsmeade, she collided with Malfoy himself, who'd just been reaching for the handle.

His mouth opened in shock as Hermione's rapidly moving body made contact, spilling both their books. She slipped back on her heel from the impact, and there was one outstandingly comic moment where Granger's arms literally pinwheeled as she fought for balance. He instinctively reached out to steady her with both hands planted firmly on either of her shoulders, reminding him again of that confrontation outside the library, and he noted the difference between what he'd wanted to do then, and what he wanted to do now. He held her in place for a second or two, his mind fogging with a confused sort of certainty that he shouldn't be touching her at all, that his father would smack him against the back of his skull if he saw Draco aiding Mudblood Granger in such a way, and then he set her to rights.

"Thank you," she said breathlessly, for the time forgetting that she was angry with him.

He simply shrugged and she knelt to pick up her books. He followed her lead to collect his own, and she darted glances at him as she slipped the many sheaves of disheveled parchment into the respective folders they'd fallen out of. She noticed the slight sheen of sweat that beaded at his hairline, and he was breathing rather heavily, as though he had run here, but also as though he were frightened.

"Where were you?" Hermione asked, her chin setting curiously.

"I overslept, Granger. It _is_ Saturday, after all." He drawled, but he wouldn't look at her.

"May I remind you that you are the one who wanted to meet today?" Hermione pointed out, and he only shrugged again, fueling another bout of frustration in her chest. "Well, come on then, I suppose. Let's just get started."

He nodded as he stood and went over to the table they'd worked at the last time they'd met. He thought it rather fitting how their chosen seat was in the middle of the classroom; neutral ground, so to speak, between the half of the room the Slytherin's typically occupied, and the side that was normally clustered with Gryffindors.

Hermione figured the best way to proceed would be to ask him questions based on the notes Draco had taken last time, so for the next ten or so minutes she asked him to repeat key terms and principals. He did well enough, but his answers were just vague enough for her to notice. She let the parchment float on to the table and gave him a shy sort of stern look.

"What is it, Granger?" He breathed, stretching his hands behind his head. "Spit it out, will you?"

"It's just, I can tell you haven't studied since we last met." Hermione said calmly.

"No, I haven't," Draco snapped. "I've been a little busy studying what we're already covering in class."

"You've got to find the time for both or you'll just end up digging yourself in a trench," Hermione retorted, her patience already waning. No one worked her up as quickly as Malfoy, with his harsh tongue and quick temper. "You're doing fairly as of right now, but the more we review, the more you're bound to get mixed up unless you keep up with what you've forgotten and what we're currently learning."

Draco only looked away and picked up his quill, turning it over in his hand absentmindedly. Hermione tried to soften her voice, and he must have noticed, because in the next moment he was looking at her again with wary eyes.

"Look… I know you aren't having an easy go of it." She said, and he responded with a disbelieving smirk. "Don't brush me off like that, Draco. I'm trying to help you."

Before she knew it, his eyes had narrowed into slits. "Don't call me that, Granger."

"It _is_ your name, isn't it?" She remarked, feeling her cheeks flame. It really had just slipped out.

"I don't want you to call me by my first name," he said through his teeth, and Hermione wanted to roll her eyes at the way he seemed to be trying to keep himself calm.

"Oh, forgive me, sir. I seem to have forgotten that I am unworthy." She mumbled, and his eyes narrowed further still.

"That hasn't got anything to do with it," he said angrily. "I just don't like it, alright?"

She pressed her mouth into a hard line, resisting the urge to say something argumentative. She wanted to press him, but knew no good would come of it. Draco, for his part, wasn't even sure himself why such familiarity coming from her bothered him so much; it simply felt like an invisible boundary would have been crossed, had he allowed her the use of his given name.

"Fine." She said slowly. "But I _am_ trying to help you. So, if I ask you to study what we cover today, can I count on you to do it? Consider it as payment of your debt."

Draco snorted. "My debt? And who am I supposed to be indebted to?"

"Me," Hermione said, as though speaking to an imbecile (and at this point, the jury was still out in that regard to Malfoy). When he simply raised his eyebrows, she enlightened him, "You stole a perfectly good Saturday from under me, and I expect you to make it worth something. If you put forth a little _effort_ , Malfoy, I'll consider my squandered freedom as part of a good cause. You can give me that little bit, can't you?"

Oddly enough, as she spoke that same guilt that had sparked on Wednesday, as he left her in the library, returned with a vengeance. He was indebted to her, he realized, in more ways than she knew. He wondered what she would think when the truth came to light, when she learned that he'd used her to buy himself time. He could imagine that it wouldn't go over well with her iron conscience, that it would probably make her hate him beyond all reason if she knew her time and effort went towards his own cause.

So, before he knew what he was doing, he agreed. "I will," he simply said.

And then she smiled at him, and the spasm of remorse that gripped his heart baffled him. Never had Draco ever felt guilt for something as reasonable as this. He'd felt guilt over silly things, like breaking expensive statement pieces scattered across Malfoy Manor – had felt it whenever he thought of how his parents' lives quite literally rested in his useless hands, but those things were ignoble. There was nothing pure about that sort of guilt, which sprouted from such black roots, but _this_ feeling – ignited by the innocence of that smile Granger wore, directed at him – was as clear as could be. It turned his mouth dry as a thousand questions rose from the ashes of such a feeling.

He shook it from his mind as best he could, though it still lingered there somewhere in the dark. He knew he would think of it for a long time, even while actively _not_ thinking about it.

"Alright then, just continue where you left off in the fifth-year text and if you finish that soon enough, we can start covering some of this year's material. If you feel up to it." She added, and the sudden sweetness in her voice made him want to hex it out of her. It was irrational, but he couldn't stand the way it grated against his conscious, that sweetness.

He turned his eyes down to the potion's text.

His mind was more or less occupied by the text in front of him, enough attention paid to it that he was able to blaze through it at a more than reasonable pace; but every once in a while he flung a quick glance at Granger through his lashes, pondering away with the smaller voices of his head.

There was a certain loneliness about her that caught his attention and kept it riveted for moments at a time; lately he had taken to looking about for her rather on instinct. He'd spy her across the Great Hall during meals, or she would pass him in the corridor between classes, and he would notice that aura of solidarity. Even when he saw her with Potter or Weasley, she was typically gazing off into empty space while the two morons spoke between themselves and snogged their girlfriends. He wondered why they didn't make more of an attempt to talk to her. If Draco had been as close to her as those two considered themselves to be, he would try to break through the wall she had so clearly constructed around herself, but they only seemed to care that she was around. As long as they could see her, they considered her fine, just fine.

Nearly an hour had passed and the information Draco skimmed through was nothing new to him any longer. He realized with not a small degree of horror that he had spent most of his time thinking about _her._ Why, he couldn't have said, but he was certain that he did not like it in the least.

 _It's only because you're around her so much_ , he reassured himself as he closed the potions text gently, drawing her attention to him. They looked at each other for a moment. _It's only because you've got to tolerate her. You're only tolerating her._

"Are you finished with that?" She asked, indicating the text in front of him.

He cleared his throat, still dry as the parchment he'd taken his notes on. "Yes," he rasped, and cleared his throat again. "Yes, I'm finished."

"It's been long enough that you can leave, if you'd like." Hermione said, although inwardly she admitted that she would rather stay where she was; she had nothing better to do than sit here with him, and she _was_ on a roll with her studying. She'd even pulled out her Arithmancy charts, working through them at record speeds. "But if you feel up to it, we could also start on some of this year's stuff."

In the millisecond of silence that followed her words, Draco heard her stomach erupt in a growl that echoed off the bricks of the dungeon walls.

He raised his eyebrows. "Does the Mudblood need to be fed?" He asked, and Hermione would have been offended if his tone hadn't been so neutral.

"She does, I think." Hermione laughed, surprising him. Apparently his overuse of the word had caused it to wear off on her. It was a shame, in a way; sometimes it was fun just to make her bristle, to make that light come into her eyes.

He debated for a moment: he had to stay close to her until word came back from Hogsmeade. The enchanted coin in his pocket, to which Rosmerta had its twin, seemed a little warmer against his leg, but there was no way to be sure unless he pulled it out and examined the serial number lining its edges. He had to admit now, upon further reflection, that the idea for the coin, which he'd stolen directly from the D.A.'s method of communication throughout last year, had been insanely clever. He wondered absently where Granger had learned the Protean Charm.

"Let's kill two birds with one stone then, shall we?" Draco asked as he rose and began rolling his parchment up neatly and tightly. "We'll continue this in the Great Hall."

Hermione simply stared at him, rather stupidly for a moment. "The Great Hall? As in, we'll sit together?"

He nodded absently, stuffing the potions text into his bag and slinging it over his shoulder.

"In the Great Hall?" She repeated.

"Yes, in the bloody Great Hall," Draco scoffed and added, "I'm not worried about being seen with you today, Mudblood. Most everyone we know are gone to Hogsmeade, aren't they?"

She sat for only a moment longer, before he jerked his head in impatience, indicating for her to lead the way. She did so, in a manner of reluctance that was almost insulting. Was she really so opposed to being seen with _him_ as well?

Hermione silently hung her cloak over her arm and shouldered her bag, which Draco noticed was practically bursting at the seams, and preceded him out of the dungeon. On their way to the Great Hall, he couldn't help but notice how well she moved, without that bulky cloak covering her so completely; her steps were so fluid, her body seeming to glide along with her feet. She could have been a spirit, if only she'd been floating. As they emerged into the Entrance Hall the light hit her blindingly, after over an hour of sitting in nothing more than candlelight. Her hair seemed like a halo around her head. He had so rarely seen Granger out of uniform, and he had _never_ noticed what she looked like in normal clothing, form-fitting clothing. He realized that under those denim jeans, she probably had legs to kill for.

* * *

Once in the Great Hall, he noticed that she chose the seat at the far end of the Hufflepuff table, sitting at the farthest point from the entrance that she could, and glancing around with a rabbit-like nervousness. There were only a handful of students in the Hall with them, compared to the vast numbers that were usually present for lunch, and she noted thankfully that they were all twelve years old or younger: no one she knew well enough to care if they saw her with Draco bloody Malfoy.

Immediately Draco reached for a platter of sandwiches, drawing them closer to where they sat, and handing one to Hermione. She took it with the smallest of smiles, but set it on the empty plate in front of her.

"We need to study while we eat, you know." She said.

Draco shook his head. "I can't multitask when it comes to eating," he replied. "Just have your lunch and then we'll start. Unlike Weasel, I don't enjoy being covered in ham and mustard."

Hermione frowned at him, but she began to eat anyway, noticing finally how hungry she'd been since she skipped breakfast that morning. They were silent, not a word passing between them, so that after a while Hermione began to forget that she was even with him. Her chin rested in the palm of her hand as she took small bites of her sandwich, looking up at the enchanted ceiling with a distinct expression of worry.

"What is it?" Malfoy asked, breaking her from her reverie.

She turned her gaze down to him, biting her lower lip and shifting in her seat, but she didn't answer him right away.

"What is it, Granger?" He repeated. He was seconds away from waving his hand an inch away from her face to check for cognition.

"The weather's turned pretty nasty," she said, which wasn't much of an explanation.

"So?" Draco prompted.

She turned her face away. "It doesn't matter," she muttered. "It's just a feeling, is all."

Draco swallowed, his defenses rising. Her intuition was strong, he noted, and it aggravated him. He rolled his eyes and tossed a restless hand through his hair.

"You worry too much, Mudblood." He said.

" _Stop_ already, with all the names!" She breathed in exasperation. "Can't you stand being pleasant for more than five minutes at a time?"

"I'm not sure what you expect," said Malfoy, mildly enough, but he could see the frustration working in her eyes. "I'll never stop reminding you of what you are."

She spied the almost playful smirk on his face, but instead of rolling with it, it only made her angry, probably propelled by the sharp pang of anxiety that had wormed its way into her breast out of nowhere.

"And I'll never understand why you have to be such a prat, Malfoy," she cried. "What is it that makes you want to constantly cut me down?"

" _Relax,_ Granger," said Draco, feeling the tumultuous waves of emotion that suddenly burst forth from her. Then he added under his breath, "You're so much more pleasant when you're silent."

"You know, I actually want an answer," Hermione responded. "I want to know what makes you such a prejudiced git."

He knew that she was mostly just lashing out at him, and that he'd more or less made himself a target by baiting her, but he couldn't help rising to the occasion, matching her raised tone with his own.

"Be prepared to suffer in disappointment, Granger." He drawled angrily. "I'm afraid the logistics of my feelings for your kind will just sail straight over that muddled head of yours."

Hermione snorted. "That's rich, Malfoy. This, coming from the Pureblood Prince who needs remedial potions lessons from said muddled, Mudblood Granger."

He stared at her, hard, his fists clenching against the table where they'd been resting quite peacefully only moments ago. It was just like Granger, to ruin a perfectly tolerable afternoon.

"You can leave," he said, without really thinking. He was ready to banish his alibi, if only to get rid of her sudden outburst.

"I already planned to, you pompous _ass._ " She picked herself up in a flash of heated emotion, stopping only to take another sandwich for later and sling her bag over her shoulder.

She refused to give him another glance, even one filled with hatred, as she strode towards the entrance as quickly as her feet would carry her. However, before she could reach the staircase and fly off to the Common Room, a burst of frantic cries echoed through the main doors of the Entrance Hall as they flew open with a crash.

Hermione needed only a moment to recognize Harry and Ron's faces, white with horror.

"Harry!" Hermione cried, immediately running to meet them at the door. Over his shoulder she could see a mass unmistakable as Hagrid carrying the limp form of Katie Bell. "What on Earth's happened? What's wrong with Katie?"

"Ask Malfoy!" Harry roared, his face a stone of absolute anger and fear. "He's cursed her, Hermione! Given her a necklace to take to Dumbledore! She might be killed, that slimy _rat_ -

"No, Harry, he can't have done," she stammered as they all cleared a space for Hagrid to carry Katie into the warmth of the hall. He mumbled something about the hospital wing through lips that barely moved, and he was gone in an instant, Katie's limbs dangling listlessly in Hagrid's arms. Hermione caught only a glimpse of the Gryffindor's face, her mouth hanging slack and lifeless, before Hagrid disappeared around the bend that would lead him to Madam Pomfrey.

" _Don't_ tell me I'm wrong, Hermione!" Harry cried, and Hermione noticed Ron practically cowering at Harry's side, a terrified look of uncertainty clouding his face. "I'm not wrong about him, I know I'm not. And now that git's gone and tried to kill Dumbledore!"

"Harry, I don't understand," Hermione pleaded desperately. "I need you to calm down, tell me exactly what happened."

"I WILL NOT CALM DOWN!" Harry was practically screaming now, his words echoing into the Great Hall, where Malfoy heard and hung his head, preparing himself. "I need to find him. Has he come back to the castle? Have you seen him?"

"If you'll just stop yelling, Harry, we can talk –

"You three!" The sharp voice of McGonagall clapped like thunder from the staircase and instantly their heads snapped up in her direction. Filch hovered a few steps behind her, wringing his hands with a vile smile that implied he was ready for business. "What is going on?"

"Katie Bell was cursed, Professor," Hermione explained hurriedly, relief flooding through her. If Dumbledore was not here to calm Harry, Professor McGonagall was the next best solution.

"Cursed, you say, Granger?" McGonagall demanded, her expression slowly morphing into shock as Hermione frantically nodded. "You three, come with me. Not a word until we reach my office. The whole castle need not know about this."

"You'll need Malfoy too, Professor." Harry called, not bothering to quash the anger in his voice, although he had, at least, managed to lower it a handful of octaves.

"What's that, Potter?"

"You'll need to bring Malfoy. It's his curse she's under." Harry said, much more evenly now. "I'd bet he's back in the castle now."

McGonagall addressed Filch without looking at him. "Find Mr. Malfoy, Filch. Bring him to my office."

"I'm here, Professor," Hermione's head pivoted to look at Draco, whose face had settled into a casual smirk as he stood in the doorway which opened to the Great Hall. "Lead the way."

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

I know the time between each chapter has grown from what it was at the beginning, but I'm at least sticking to the goal of posting at least one chapter a week. I also want to assure my lovely readers that I know this has got to be one of the most slow-going Dramione fanfics up on this site, but I'm really set on making this story more than just a romance between the two characters. Besides, it wouldn't be all that believable if they just fell in love within a few chapters, now would it? There's some deep-seated hate there, people!

Anyway, I'm a little worried that I might be overdoing it with the lengths of my chapters. I'm trying to keep the word-count at an average of 8,000 or so, but even that feels a little much, and the last thing I want to do is bore you guys! I'm doing my best to fill each chapter with thoughtful content, at least, but if I'm going too far, just let me know. I'm not the most experienced with fanfiction, so I'm not quite sure what the norm is.

As always, feel free to let me know of any criticisms or thoughts any of you may have.

And a big thank you to **_Musicangel913_** who has given me the greatest compliment I think any writer can receive, "You have a way with words." That review brought a smile to my face, so, I thank you, Musicangel.

Yours Truly,

Emma Perry

* * *

I wanted to update this to thank those of you who left reviews, with advice regarding the chapter lengths. I was quite relieved to hear that I haven't necessarily been overdoing it. I've always been pretty verbose as a person, so naturally, I was inclined to think I needed to tone myself down a little ;)

Thanks to _**Aymee**_ and _**Musicangel913**_ for helping to put my mind at ease. Also, thank you _**ElizaLane**_ for following my story so closely. I've appreciated your kind words twice now, and I couldn't have asked for a more pleasant reader, I think! Not to mention, I _love_ the name Eliza. Next to my own it's my favorite :D


	8. Betrayal and Friendship

Chapter Eight –

Throughout the years Hermione Granger had had plenty of opportunity to hone her intuition. It had always been quite a gift, one she firmly believed had saved her life on many occasions. For instance, in her first year she'd happened across the subject of Devil's Snare one perfectly safe evening in the library, and she'd decided to read further, feeling as though Devil's Snare was something one should know about, rather like quicksand. Months later that knowledge had saved her life, and had allowed her to save the lives of Harry and Ron as well. Sure, she'd overlooked some pretty broad details, like the fact Ron's pet rat had really been Peter Pettigrew in disguise – but really, who _would_ have guessed that?

Only moments before Harry, Ron and Hagrid (carrying a possibly dying Katie Bell) came barreling into the Entrance Hall, Hermione had been absolutely certain that something terrible was going to happen. She wasn't necessarily close with Katie, but she had seen the girl every day, nine months out of every year since she was eleven, and besides that, Katie was like living proof that every one of them were in mortal danger, which could culminate at any time.

Then, to cap it all off, Harry seemed to have lost all sense.

As McGonagall led the four of them to her office (in a scene that was awfully reminiscent of the time Malfoy had turned Harry, Ron and Hermione in for breaking curfew during their first year together, yet a thousand times worse) Harry managed to keep it all down, but as Hermione peeked at him from the corner of her eye as she walked next to him, she noticed the hard line his brows made over his eyes, the stony set of his mouth, and knew that he was only thinking of what he would say the moment he got the chance.

Here was the thing about Harry: he was very much a hot-head. Sure, one could pretty easily say that it took him quite a bit to lose his temper, but once he reached his boiling point, he could rocket to Mars with the steam that shot from his backside. The best example Hermione had was the first time she saw him again during the summer before fifth year, when he'd spent about ten minutes screaming at her and Ron after all his anger had been boiling away with no outlet while he was stuck at the Dursleys', but she had many more instances of evidence. It was Harry's sense of justice that was his biggest downfall, emotionally. If anyone tampered with what was right and what was wrong, or if anyone so much as questioned his integrity or his merit, he'd react as if he couldn't handle it. Hence the hiatus he and Ron took from their friendship during the fourth year and his constant state of war with Umbridge (although, _she_ had deserved all she got) throughout the fifth.

As the group rounded the last corner before they would reach McGonagall's office, Hermione's stomach seemed to be in a state of free-falling; there was no way Harry would take this well at all. Of course, Hermione knew well enough that Draco hadn't been the one to curse Katie Bell, and as much as she wanted to hide from everyone and cover her face, she would tell Harry that. But, Harry was utterly convinced that Malfoy was a Death Eater, and he had been for quite some time. Hermione couldn't count on one hand the amount of times Harry asked her if Malfoy had done or said anything suspicious, and she was pretty sure that Harry watched Draco with a particular eye whenever he had the chance. It was quickly turning into an obsession, and whether or not he received all the proof in the world that Draco was actually innocent, Harry would continue to think the worst. And, the more anyone disagreed with him, the angrier he would become. She couldn't be sure how much of that anger would be directed towards herself, and as much as Hermione loved him, she didn't want to fight with him at all.

Professor McGonagall swept over to her desk and sat down, her face at its utmost stern setting. Ron, Harry, Hermione and Draco stood before her in a line, waiting for the Professor's first words. Hermione chanced a sidelong look at Malfoy, who had carefully constructed his expression into one of polite confusion.

"Well?" McGonagall's eyes slid on to each of them in turn. "Who's first?"

Harry spoke up at once. "May I, Professor?" McGonagall nodded and Harry launched into a full account of what happened; how he, Ron and Ginny had been following close behind Katie and her friend when all at once they began to fight, Katie touched the necklace, and fell under the curse, floating into the sky with anguished screams. Katie's friend had told them that she'd come out of the bathroom acting strangely, carrying the parcel that was the necklace and telling Leanne that she was to deliver the parcel to Dumbledore. "Professor, Malfoy did it. He bought that necklace at Borgin and Burke's, we all saw him." His head swiveled to look first at Ron, and then at Hermione, his expression implying that he had all the confidence in the world that they would back him up.

"Is this true? Did you two witness Mr. Malfoy purchasing this necklace?" McGonagall asked, and Ron simply muttered something incoherent. McGonagall gave him an annoyed look, then asked, "Well, Miss Granger?"

Draco's eyes snapped to Hermione, who'd quite literally felt them land onto her. Her face reddened exceedingly, becoming a beacon that could guide ships through the stormiest of nights.

"Well, not exactly." Hermione said in a small voice, unable to handle all the focus that was suddenly upon her. Her face fell to her feet.

"That's _bullocks_ ," Harry cried immediately. "You were there! We all saw him – in Diagon Alley! Professor, he slipped his mum and went off to Borgin and Burke's while we were school shopping."

"N-no, that's not what I meant." Hermione stammered. "Let me finish, Harry. I agree that we followed him, and we _heard_ him buying something from the shopkeeper, but we couldn't see him! We don't know what he bought, Harry."

"That doesn't matter!" Harry burst out, his voice elevating even further. "You can't seriously believe this is a coincidence!? That necklace was for sale in that shop!"

Hermione, quite unable to help it, met Malfoy's gaze, which seemed to be pulling at her attention like a magnet. He practically emanated accusation, and even… betrayal? She couldn't explain the look he thrust upon her, but she was surprised by the emotion of it. He wasn't looking at Ron or Harry at all, and as their eyes connected she felt rather as if they were the only two people in the room. The anger was meant for _her_ alone. She tore her eyes away, unable to bear the confusion he caused.

Once she looked away Draco felt himself snap back into gear. He'd been thrown off for a moment, almost as if he'd been unable to believe that Granger would do such a thing as follow him. He couldn't have said why, considering whom she was friends with. And then, she'd always been against him, hadn't she? She was separated from him by a stark line, the Dark kept from the Light. Why was that such a strong realisation, all of a sudden? Hadn't he always known it?

"I've a right to shop anywhere I please, Potter." Draco spat, and then straightened his shoulders as he addressed Professor McGonagall. "Just because these three imbeciles decided to invade my privacy doesn't mean that they've got any proof."

"We don't." Hermione practically squeaked. "Have any proof, I mean. We really didn't see what he was buying, Professor. He didn't even mention what it was to the man he bought it from."

Draco nodded tightly in agreement, eyes locked on McGonagall's, who eventually sighed and looked to Harry with an uncharacteristically weary expression on her face.

"Mr. Potter, I am afraid that you are accusing Mr. Malfoy of something immensely serious," she said heavily. "You have not much proof, besides chancing to see him buy an object that you can't even identify from the same shop where that necklace was for sale."

"Besides that, Harry, the necklace was still there when I went inside to try to figure out what Malfoy had taken." Hermione said softly. "I saw it in a case, I asked the salesman about it, remember?"

"You went _inside?"_ Draco cried indignantly, and then immediately pressed his lips together as if he hadn't meant to say anything at all.

"Yes, I went inside." Hermione said defensively. "We wanted to know what you were up to. Be fair, Malfoy, you were being awfully suspicious."

Draco sputtered, but said nothing intelligible.

"He could've had it delivered." Harry shot.

"That's impossible, Mr. Potter." McGonagall snapped impatiently. "A cursed object of that magnitude would never have made it into this castle, let alone into the hands of a student."

"I'm telling you all, it was Malfoy. I _know_ it." Harry said desperately, hand outstretched in Malfoy's direction. "Can he even say where he was when it happened? He's a sneaky git, Professor-

"Mr. Potter! Watch yourself –

"Look," Harry said through clenched teeth. "All I'm saying is that he can't tell us where he was when Katie was cursed. Can we talk about _that_ for a moment?"

Hermione folded her arms around her chest and squeezed, feeling as though she would gladly jump into the pit of hell, had an opening broken through the ground at her feet. She had been hoping to avoid this part, thinking that if she could present enough logical evidence to Harry that maybe, just maybe, he might let it go. But, it _was_ Harry standing right next to her.

"Actually, yeah, Potter, let's talk about that, shall we?" Draco raised his eyebrows at Hermione, sending her a silent message: _well?_

"Harry, it could not have been Malfoy." Hermione said breathlessly, wanting to squint her eyes shut but keeping them levelly on her friend anyway; it was better if she sounded sure of herself. She'd only make a target of herself if she sounded as though she had something to be ashamed of. "He was with me – the entire time you all were away. When Katie was cursed, I imagine we were still in the dungeon."

"You were with him?" Ron, for the first time, formed a full, understandable sentence.

"I was." Hermione nodded slowly. "I've been giving him extra lessons for Slughorn. I've told you both, remember?"

Ron nodded, although he kept his eyes locked on Hermione, and they were full of an emotion that Hermione couldn't read, and she didn't have time to try to decipher it.

"So that's why you wouldn't come with us." He said, no question in his words. Hermione shrugged a little helplessly, and McGonagall interrupted them, clearing her throat.

"As far as I am concerned, this matter has been cleared up, as far as the four of you are concerned. I will speak to Miss Bell if and when she recovers, so rest assured this situation will be fully investigated. I expect to hear no more of this – from any of you." She addressed only Harry during the last bit, and he bristled visibly.

"I'd like to talk to Dumbledore." Harry said flatly, a symptom of unconquerable anger, Hermione knew.

"I'm afraid that you cannot, Mr. Potter." McGonagall stiffly replied. "He is away from Hogwarts at the moment, and I feel inclined to remind you that even if he _were_ present, the Headmaster is a busy man, and is not at your beck and call."

"I never said he was!" Harry cried emphatically. "You can't expect me to drop this, Professor. He is up to something, I can _feel_ it."

"That is precisely what I expect you do to, Potter," McGonagall barked, rising from her chair and drawing herself to her full height. "I mean it – I don't want to hear anything more about this! Now, leave my office – quietly, unless you want a detention under your belt."

For a moment the four of them just stood there, looking rather dumb.

"Out. All three of you." The professor snapped, and one by one they filed out of her office, heads down. Except Malfoy, who, Harry noted looked rather smug. He was in the lead, and for a while they all went in the same direction, a silent tension stretching between them that needled maddeningly under all Hermione's senses.

She breathed a quiet sigh of relief as they all came to the point where Draco should have split off and headed towards the Slytherin Common Room, but instead, he spun on his heel, his eyes instantly landing on Hermione. He seemed to be telling her, _I'll deal with you later_ before his attention suddenly shifted to Potter.

In all honesty, Draco knew better than to goad Harry after the events that had unfolded, but he was literally on cloud nine- on one hand at least – as his plan had actually worked out the way he intended. He'd even managed _not_ to get anyone killed in the process, which was a relief to the fear that he hadn't even realised he'd had until he spied Hagrid carrying Katie Bell to the hospital wing. On the other hand, he was supremely angry that the three of them, the Golden Bloody Trio, had followed him that day in Diagon Alley. More to the point, he was angry at _her._

He felt as if she'd lied to him, as if she'd betrayed him, and instead of examining the why's and how's behind that feeling, he decided that the most logical route to take would be to torment her friends. He knew that was the best way to get back at her – to work Potter up to a good boil and then leave her to defuse the flames.

"I hope you feel like the ass you are, Potter." He said, practically gushing with triumph. "Maybe that'll teach you to keep your porky nose out of other people's business."

Hermione darted a quick glance at Harry, whose hands had tightened into fists. She seized his arm, looking at Ron to indicate that he should follow her lead.

"Let's just go, Harry." Hermione breathed desperately. "He isn't worth it."

"Yeah, mate." Ron said, much more uncertainly. "You heard what McGonagall said. I don't much fancy a detention this early on."

"You're too bloody proud, Malfoy." Harry said, in a deadly voice of calm. "You think you've got everyone around here fooled, and that'll be the chink in your armor. You'll slip up, getting so confident like this."

"Are you giving me advice, Potter?" Malfoy pressed a sarcastic hand to his heart. "Really, I'm touched. But I think we've established that you're a basket case, and you're little followers over there are mindless automatons who can't think for themselves."

Hermione, struck by the maliciousness of his comment, quite forgot that she was meant to be pulling Harry away. Ron likewise dropped Harry's arm and stepped forward.

"Who're you calling mindless?" He asked heatedly, and Malfoy chuckled.

"I'd love to spell it out for you, Weasel, but I haven't got the hours that would take."

"Just shut up, Draco!" Hermione cried, fed up with the events that seemed to have dragged on for hours. "Don't you think we've all had enough for one day?"

"Was anyone talking to you, Mudblood?" He spat, his mouth twisting into the ugliest grimace he could muster. Hermione thought, with some sadness, that it had been a while since he'd looked at her so hatefully. "Better count yourself lucky that you stuck around here today. I'm sure whoever it was that attacked that girl would much rather have taken you instead."

"I'd bet you'd love to see that." Hermione retorted scornfully.

"Well, it's only a matter of time, you see." Draco said. "Mudbloods like you are at the top of every Death Eater's list, isn't that right? Especially considering the way you follow this one about…" he thrust a hand in Harry's direction, who slipped his hand into his pocket discreetly. "You'll get her killed, you know, Potter. Her and the rest of your band of heroes."

Something in Harry snapped so hard that Hermione would have sworn she heard it give way somewhere in his chest.

"I wouldn't be surprised if you were the one to do it, Malfoy." Harry spat, and for a moment his words actually baffled Draco, so much so that he failed to notice Harry pull out his wand until it was too late.

" _Melofors!"_ Harry shouted, and the spell would have hit him if Hermione hadn't thrown up a hasty shield. It was quickly cast, and it almost wasn't enough to repel the jinx, but it seemed to work, as Malfoy was still standing as he'd been before, only now his shocked and outraged gaze switched from Harry to Hermione and back as Hermione disarmed Harry.

"Really, Harry, the Pumpkin-Head Jinx?" Hermione cried reproachfully, holding his wand. " _That's_ where your instincts take you?"

She stepped between them now, Draco staring open-mouthed at the back of her head.

"Out of the way, Hermione," Harry said darkly, trying to angle his head to get a better look at Malfoy.

"He's done nothing wrong, Harry!" Hermione exclaimed her hands gesticulating wildly in frustration. "He isn't a Death Eater, and he hasn't cursed anyone! I don't know how much more proof you need."

"She's right," Draco said triumphantly, and Ron held Harry by the scruff of his robes as he lunged forward.

"What is _wrong_ with you?" Harry cried, looking at Hermione with positive accusation gleaming in his eyes. "How can you let him sit there and say things like that, at a time like this! How can you let him get away with it?"

"Why _are_ you defending him, Hermione?" Ron asked suddenly, his eyebrows knitting. "Once again he's practically threatened you."

"Who said I'm _defending_ him?" Hermione responded, although even she knew somewhere deep down that she was; she just didn't want to think about that. "Malfoy's just being a prat. He's always a prat, that's no reason to get ourselves detention! Besides, we'd probably get worse than that, with the temper McGonagall's under."

For a long moment Harry just stood there, his breath coming out in sharp, jagged heaves. He wrestled himself from Ron's grip and straightened the collar of his robes. Hermione sighed in obvious relief. She cast a withering look at Draco, who actually recoiled from the force of it.

" _Thank_ you," she breathed to Harry, and moved forward to get him going towards the Gryffindor tower. However, as soon as she stepped out from between them, Harry bounded forward, his fist colliding the Malfoy's left cheek with a sickening thud. Harry felt the bones in his hand crack, but he didn't care; he stood over Malfoy, who was lying face-up on the ground, his hand held to his bleeding face as Harry knelt over him, preparing to deliver another blow.

"Harry!" Hermione shrieked, darting around to face Harry. She squealed " _Impedimenta!"_ her spell hitting Harry with enough force at the proper angle to shove him backwards. He was torn off of Malfoy and sent flying back a foot or two, landing on his bottom with a healthy smack.

Harry's mouth fell open in shock. "Did you just-"

Hermione's chin set in defiance. "Yes, I did. You are completely out of line Harry, and I _am_ a Prefect."

Ron was looking at her as though she'd sprouted several limbs from her abdomen.

Silence engulfed them. If Malfoy had been fully conscious, he probably would have said something snide and provoking, but as it was, he just lay in a heap, groaning incoherently.

"What's up with you, Hermione?" Ron asked quietly, and it was his turn to receive Hermione's defiant expression.

"Nothing is up with me, Ronald." She snapped. "Harry is beside himself. He's _wrong,_ and so are you, if you think that jinxing Malfoy is the proper thing to do."

Her two friends simply exchanged dumbfounded glances. They rose, Harry holding out his hand for his wand, which Hermione gave him, and then they left her without another word. But she could feel their resentment cascading down on her even as the hems of their robes disappeared around the corner.

Hermione turned her suddenly sad gaze down to Malfoy, who'd slipped away completely into Dream Land. She knelt beside him, the cold stone floor digging uncomfortably into her kneecaps.

" _Rennvervate,"_ she muttered, and she frowned in distaste as Malfoy's eyelids began to flutter. The moment he was conscious, he sat up and looked about cautiously. "They're gone." She informed him briskly, and promptly made to get back to her feet.

His hand closed around her wrist, pulling her back down.

"You know I'll have them hanging by their toes for this." Draco said softly.

"No, you won't." Hermione stated, disliking the sudden warm feeling that coursed from the spot on her wrist where their skin made contact and wound up her arm. Yet she made no move to detach herself.

"Oh, I won't?" He said, eyes glinting threateningly. "I think I will, Granger."

"You won't, because yet again you owe me a favor." Hermione retorted in a slightly bored voice.

"How do you figure that?"

"I saved your skin. Without me, you'd have a pumpkin strapped around your head right now." She quirked her eyebrows, assessing him for a moment. "Now I think of it, that probably would have been the better outcome."

"I could have handled them myself." He shot defensively.

Hermione sighed and pulled her hand from his grasp, which he'd forgotten he still had on her.

"If you can't thank me, Malfoy, the least you can do is just let the whole thing go." Hermione said tiredly. "It would be easier for everyone, I think. Especially for me because, thanks to you, I've got two sullen teenagers to deal with for the foreseeable future."

"It was your choice to get in the way, Granger." He said, suddenly remembering that he'd been angry with her before Potter threw down the metaphorical gauntlet. "You can just as easily take yourself out of it."

"I'm afraid that I can't," she said, smiling wanly down at her hands. For a moment he actually felt a little sorry for her, remembering the look of loneliness she'd so often sported lately. He wondered briefly whether he'd just made it worse for her.

But, of course he had. He'd wanted to, after all.

"Just let it go, Malfoy."

He turned his face away, his jaw working in vexation. What _was_ this? It was as if a sudden need to appease her had reared its ugly head in his belly, solidified by what she said next.

It was hardly a whisper. "Please, let it go?"

When he didn't respond, she simply cleared her throat and got shakily to her feet. He noticed that she looked fit to pass out. He wanted to tell her to sit a moment longer, clear her head, but that sort of thing was traitorous to who he was. So he let her go, but before she disappeared around the corner, he murmured, "I'll let it go."

She didn't stop to look at him, gave no indication that she'd even heard, but he knew that she had.

* * *

The fallout from the events following Katie's curse was so much more crushing than Hermione had anticipated. She'd known, of course, that Ron and Harry were beyond angry with her, but nothing could have prepared her for how far they let that mutual anger carry them.

Needless to say, Hermione did not see either Harry or Ron even once for the remainder of the weekend. On Saturday she skipped dinner herself, fancying an extremely early night to relieve the tension that had built painfully behind her eyes, and as Sunday wore on, she felt rather as if she were just missing them whenever she came into a room. They were actively avoiding her, something she could tell from the way their absences screamed at her during lunch and breakfast. Even Ginny was nowhere to be found, she realized with no small degree of hurt feelings burgeoning in her chest. Yes, Harry was Ginny's boyfriend, but didn't the friendship she shared with Hermione warrant some sort of interaction?

Never had Hermione felt so lonely. But she hoped that once classes resumed during the week, they would be too close to her to ignore her.

She was wrong.

Each morning, starting from Monday – after they'd apparently realized they couldn't skip every meal to avoid her – they'd started sitting quite at the other end of Gryffindor table, nearer to Dean and Seamus. Lavender and Ginny sat with them, of course, Ginny occasionally throwing glances full of pity down to Hermione, who could have done without them.

The classes that she shared with Ron and Harry, during which she always sat with them, they'd spent actively ignoring her, sitting with Neville (who was kind enough to ask Hermione to join them before being shut down by Harry's stony gaze), or someone else of equal distance away from the uncommonly lonesome desk at which Hermione sat.

Normally here there would be a description of some sort of encounter between Hermione and her two closest friends, dialogue exchanged and expressions analysed, but there were none of those things to speak of at all. No words, no glances, nothing. It was rather mind-boggling, truth be told, because Hermione couldn't grasp just what she'd done to bring on such exclusion, such blind anger.

Yes, she had defended Malfoy, but didn't they _know_ that that was just who Hermione Granger was? She was a Prefect, she loved and lived for rules, and she detested hasty, ill-judged actions. Of course she knew that these aspects of her already overbearing personality had wrung their stores of patience dry on multiple occasions, but wasn't that the very dynamic of her friendship with them? She was the insufferable know-it-all who grumbled about breaking curfew and harped about responsibility. Why should it shock and outrage them so much that she'd stopped Harry from making a ridiculous mistake? Even during their third year together at Hogwarts, when she'd told Professor McGonagall about the suspicious origins of Harry's Firebolt, it hadn't cause such a reaction.

Why did it have to happen now, when she felt as if all she really needed were her friends?

It was no secret that most everyone who knew Hermione found her hard to tolerate. Since she'd become friends with Harry and Ron so organically, and because Harry himself had always attracted a lot of attention, she was still able to hold on to a certain amount of respect from her fellow Gryffindors. And, she'd _thought_ that through them she'd managed to make people see her a little differently. She'd certainly earned the affections of Neville Longbottom, who sat with her still through some of their meals, but Dean, Seamus, Parvati, even Lavender seemed to forget about her presence in Hogwarts completely, now that Harry and Ron had taken to ignoring her existence.

It hurt, more than she could fathom.

Draco, for his part, fully expected Granger to call off the lessons she'd been giving him. He'd gone to the dungeon on Monday on sheer whim, knowing in his gut that she wouldn't be there to meet him. But as he opened the door to the classroom quietly and stepped inside, he saw her there, one leg crossed delicately over the other as she frowned over some chart, probably for Astronomy.

"You're here," he said, and the surprise in his tone couldn't be masked upon such short notice. Nor could the plume of pleasant thoughts that rose in his brain be shooed away before he felt them.

"Why wouldn't I be?" She asked, though her voice was somewhat dark.

He came over to where she sat and let his bag fall to the table.

"I figured your keepers would forbid you to see me, actually." Draco remarked, falling into the stool adjacent to her. The atmosphere between them felt positively stuffy, and he began to feel faint traces of resentment leaking from the set of her shoulders.

"They aren't my keepers," Hermione muttered, finally looking up from her chart to hold Draco's gaze. "They aren't even speaking to me, if you must know."

"That's no surprise is it?" He said, rather pointedly. "I can't count on one hand the amount of rows I've seen between you three."

"They've never been like this." She half-whispered, so that Draco had to lean forward to hear her. She gave a slight shake of her head, the movement tight enough to cause a tiny curl to escape from its pin and settle over her eyes. Draco stared at it as she said, "It doesn't matter. Let's just get started. I've got a lot to do today, and I want to finish our review."

She was relieved when Draco opened his text and began unfurling his notes from the previous lessons; she'd partly expected him to keep prodding, as was his usual way with delicate matters of the heart, and she was in no mood for it today. She wondered if he could feel that, if he knew that if he pushed her even a little she would fly off the handle and Jinx him herself, even if she had prevented Harry from doing so just a couple of days prior.

While he studies, eyebrows knit in concentration over his parchment, his quill zooming and scratching line after line of elegant, though rushed writing, Hermione watched him with a curious feeling in the pit of her stomach.

Mostly she was thinking of what Ron and Harry were saying about her at this very moment; she knew her two friends well enough to know that she'd be a topic of major discussion, as they were probably aware of what she was currently doing. She was thinking of the guilt that sprung up between her proximity to Malfoy, a mere foot of space separating them… and all at once she decided that she ought not to care. What good would it do to constantly try to appease two individuals who should have known _her_ as well as she knew them?

Slowly she took to examining Draco, and for the first time since the confrontation had happened, she allowed herself to admit that she hadn't wanted to see him hurt by Harry. Like Harry, Hermione had an impenetrable sense of justice; Malfoy hadn't actually done anything wrong, and despite all her efforts to prove that to him, Harry had still lashed out and acted rashly. The sort of person Hermione knew herself to be wouldn't allow such a thing to happen, and she would honestly have protected Malfoy again, if only to teach Harry that he couldn't let his emotions carry him away every time he felt so inclined. But there _had_ been something more to it, hadn't there?

Whether she wanted to confront the feeling or not, she knew that over the past handful of weeks she'd grown to know Malfoy more intimately than she ever had. No, there had been no heart-on-sleeve talks until three in the morning, and she still had more questions about him than she had answers, but somewhere along this exceedingly tumultuous line, Malfoy had become Draco in her mind. She saw him less as the blustering bully that she'd known for the past six years and more as a particularly temperamental rich kid, a product of his destructive environment. And, if she could understand Harry's volatile temper and heavy emotions, why shouldn't she be able to empathize as clearly with Malfoy?

No, Hermione hadn't wanted to see him get hurt, not over an accusation as serious as the one Harry was spewing around; Draco had never admitted it to her, and he probably never would say such a thing, but she couldn't imagine that it was very easy for one to be marked for the decisions and actions of the adults in charge of one's life. Her conscience couldn't allow it.

And besides that, she'd seen him so frequently just like this: with that same intense and calculating expression she must have worn a thousand times throughout nights of hard studying – his face completely free of his typical grimace of disgust and self-importance – free of any antipathy or negative emotion. It was a different face, she was sure, than any Harry or Ron had seen from Malfoy.

It was a scary thought, to realize how her opinion of him had slowly begun to change, but it was almost exhilarating in a way, precisely because she was sure that so few people had ever seen him the way she was seeing him now, and had been seeing him for the past month. It was incredible, really. She began to sift through mental images of his changes in behavior towards her, and wondered if it was possible that they were becoming… not _friends_ , exactly, but something a little father from enemies.

* * *

The rest of the week, as well as the one which followed, showed no improvement in terms of Ron and Harry's behavior towards Hermione. At some point Hermione was positive that Harry had had another meeting with Dumbledore, as she was sitting quite alone in the Common Room before the dying fire one Monday night as Harry came creeping through the portrait hole. He was wearing his Invisibility Cloak, but she didn't need to see him to know that it could only have been him. She'd sank lower in her armchair, not wanting to be seen any more than Harry wanted to be seen.

There were no words to describe what it felt like for Hermione. Never had she felt so alone in her life, never had she felt so abandoned. Ginny still had made no effort to speak to her, and while she tried not to hold that against the youngest Weasley (because really, knowing Harry and Ron, they'd probably made it clear that they each expected her to choose sides), she found it difficult to swallow Ginny's fleeting apologetic glances, and nearly impossible to reciprocate with a knowing and understanding glance of her own.

Hermione had drifted so low that she started inviting Neville Longbottom to the library with her, and she made sure that he sat with her while she was in the Common Room. Neville was pleasant company enough, but eventually she found that she could not successfully study while he was around; he had a terrible habit of mumbling as he read and sighing in desperate frustration every five or so minutes. Extremely distracting, that was.

The saddest truth of all was that Hermione began looking forward to her lessons with Malfoy every Monday and Wednesday, especially as the second week of Silence from her "friends" wore into a third. It was so comforting to speak and have someone listen to her, even if that person groaned in utter disdain every time she chanced to open her mouth.

Plus, he'd actually kept to his word and studied.

Sometime during the second week of her estrangement from Ron and Harry, Hermione thought it was time to take Draco's lessons into practical application. Even though Draco missed more lessons than he took, always calling on her sympathy for Quidditch practice, when he was with her, she could sense his effort. His attention was always fully on what they covered, never anywhere else.

Now, on one Saturday afternoon, after Draco had once again asked to postpone a third Wednesday lesson, they sat side-by-side in the Potions dungeon, brewing Draught of Peace. It was a potion they both knew and understood well enough, having learned it last year during practice for their O. , but Hermione figured it wouldn't hurt, as Draco's problem seemed to be rooted in his attention to detail, which had, for reasons he never bothered to explain to her, suffered greatly over the past handful of months.

As Draco sprinkled the proper amount of powdered moonstone over the brew, he caught her looking at him. Immediately he frowned.

"Why is it that whenever I look at you, you seem as if you're trying to crack into my brain?" He demanded, feeling a secret sort of amusement at the way she flushed pink.

"I'm not trying to crack into anything," Hermione responded tensely. "I was only wondering why these lessons are so necessary for you. When you're here, you do quite well. But during class, it's a whole other story."

Draco shrugged, his expression impatient. "Sod off."

"You know, perhaps if you tried to figure that out, it would help you improve." Hermione said, and the gentle tone in which she spoke offended the arrogant half of his spirit.

"I already _know_ why, Granger." He hissed, dipping a wooden spoon into the brew and stirring slowly. "I'd just rather not turn this into a sharing circle."

Hermione sighed through pursed lips, her eyebrows quirking up quickly.

Draco rolled his eyes. "Spit it out, Granger. We both know we won't have any peace until you've unloaded your soliloquy."

"You don't have to be so offensive, Draco."

Surprisingly enough, Draco had grown rather used to Hermione using his first name. It was simply just a thing that she did, if that made any sense, and all his efforts to make her stop had proven vain, even though he still visibly winced whenever she used it.

Now, he only waved his hand in a way that said, _get on with it, you crazed animal._

"All I'm saying," She began, in a manner of great trepidation. "Is that there wouldn't be much of a point to these lessons if there's an underlying problem, would there?"

Draco stopped all movement and turned his eyes back onto her, his expression flat. She knew that this was his way of telling her, once again, to sod off, but she'd long ago gotten accustomed to ignoring that look. It was an empty threat.

"If you want my opinion-"

"I most certainly _do not."_

She continued as if she hadn't heard him. "I think you have a hard time under pressure. Which, is nothing to be ashamed of, but you've got to spend some serious time thinking through it, to try and diagnose the issue. Otherwise you'll never get over it, and no matter how many lessons you take from me, you won't improve in class."

"Oh, believe me, Granger." He drawled, returning to his work and avoiding her eyes. "I think about a lot of things. Potions slips in from time to time, don't worry."

Hermione leaned forward, her chin resting in the palm of her hand.

"What sort of things do you think about, then?" She asked, her expression one of the utmost interest.

Draco narrowed his eyes at her through the strands of hair that had fallen free over his brow.

"What d'you think you're doing?" He asked.

Her mouth opened and closed for seconds on end, until Draco quite felt like reaching over and shutting it for her. Finally, she spoke, "Talking? I suppose."

"We don't talk, Granger." He said, his tone suddenly business-like.

More than once over the past few weeks he found himself backed into this corner: Granger, always trying to start conversations with him over silly things, and lately, she'd been getting more personal. It made him uncomfortable, to the nth degree, especially because whenever she did this, he was forced to realize just how closely they'd been forced together. When she was silent, or when they were talking of all things academic, or simply just making fun of each other, it was too easy to forget how much he despised her. And when this happened, he quite literally had to force himself to visualize her as that emblem of all this revolting. He had to remind himself that he hated her square, proper little personality, her conservative style of clothing and sense of nobility, though she had no such claim to nobility. Simply put, Draco often forgot that he was above her, that he was better than her in every way, and that she was unworthy of his notice.

"Obviously we don't, but we could." Hermione said seriously. "I think it would help."

"You are the last person in this school I would confide in, Granger." Draco said smoothly. "You seem to have forgotten that I despise you."

To his surprise, she snorted. "You don't hate me, Draco."

His jaw clenched and his eyes flashed. " _Don't_ call me that."

"For heaven's sake!" She cried, tossing her hands in exasperation. "What is the big deal? Does it cause you physical pain to imagine that we might not be enemies anymore?"

"We _are_ enemies, Granger."

But she kept going, "That we might actually be on friendlier terms? Why would that be such a bad thing? I quite like the thought of having a Slytherin for a friend, even one with a head as bloated as yours-"

Draco, caught up in the sudden fury that had washed over him, slammed his palm flat against the table, causing his mortar and pestle to topple over onto the stone floor, where it shattered into pieces, the pestle clattering under the table; if it had had a voice, Hermione imagined it would have squealed in terror. She started violently, her lips parting in shock.

"Enough!" He shouted, causing her to start again. He even noted that she'd leaned away, putting quite a bit of distance between them, and the savage part of him was glad of it. She should be afraid of him. "We will never be anything more than enemies, Granger. Just because I tolerate you – that doesn't mean I _like_ doing it!"

She stared at him in open-mouthed silence. Honestly, it had been so long since she'd had a real fight with him that she'd forgotten just how nasty he could be. She wasn't prepared for it.

He felt the sudden need to tear her to pieces, to shatter her, like his mortar bowl.

"You've gotten so bloody _pathetic,_ do you know that?" He spat, relishing the way her expression hooded over, as if trying to hide her hurt from him. "Practically cramming yourself down my throat, simply because no one else can stand to be near you! Besides Longbottom, that is, and let's face it, that prat's only got half a brain as it is."

Hermione felt as if she'd been slapped, but still Draco plowed on, determined to wring tears from her. If anyone had pointed out to him that perhaps he was punishing Granger in order to punish himself, he would have laughed in their face, even if that was precisely what he was doing, and even if the most miniscule part of him was conscious of it.

"It's so sad that it's almost laughable," He exclaimed, and he did laugh, rather meanly, as he spoke. "Potter and Weasley should thank their lucky stars that they found a way to dump off the likes of you, even if it did take them six sodding years to do it."

Hermione's face had gone rather blank. Then, all at once she fastened her arms around her chest and glared at him menacingly. He could see that fire blaze into her eyes, and he couldn't remember the last time she'd looked at him that way. He rather enjoyed it for the sign that it was, that he'd managed to burrow his way under her skin, and it had only taken a handful of sentences.

" _I'm_ pathetic, Malfoy?" she whispered, her mouth grinning pretty maniacally. He'd done it, pushed her over the edge, and she became frighteningly aware that she would say anything to top the hurt he'd layered upon her, if only to make him pay for forcing her to realize that he was even _capable_ of hurting her so deeply. The way his words pulverized her heart, like Ahab's harpoon, made her want to scream at herself just as much as him, for having allowed herself to grow so comfortable with him. "I'm not the one doomed to failure for the rest of my sniveling life."

She noted the confusion, and something else like fear, spasm through the muscles in his visage, and she smirked, knowing that she'd hit the right vein; now all she had to do was dig a little deeper, bore down towards his core.

"What? You didn't think I could see it?" she asked quietly, shaking her head in pitying amusement. "We can _all_ see it Malfoy, that even if you aren't your father yet, you're well on your way. And remind me of where he is again? I seem to have forgotten…"

It was the first time she'd directly insulted him in such a way, and it fueled her proverbial fire to see him scowl dangerously in response. _You asked for it,_ she thought viciously.

"You'd better face it now, Malfoy, so you can prepare yourself." She hissed, and then she was stepping towards him, so close now that she had to turn her face up to his to look in his eyes, which filled with shocked outrage with every word she spoke. "Outside of these castle walls, you are no on. You are _faceless,_ Draco Malfoy, and you will be until the moment Voldemort swallows you whole. All of your pathetic, self-postulating ideals mean nothing out there. They simply make people hate you for all of your selfish actions and cowardice towards anything different, towards anything that you can't understand. Which is sad, really, because perhaps if you hadn't been brainwashed your entire life, you might still possess some sort of redeeming quality. As it is," She quirked her eyebrows thoughtfully, "The most your hateful personality will ever earn you is a Dark Mark branded into your skin. And then what?"

Draco blinked – tried to break eye contact – and failed.

"Then what, Draco?" She breathed again, and then paused as if actually waiting for an answer.

Draco fought to visualize that wall which built itself, all of a sudden exceedingly sure that he could feel her fingers sifting through his mind, unearthing thoughts he only dared to allow as he was at his most vulnerable – only moments from the edge of sleep. As soon as she continued speaking, however, he was unable to focus on anything besides her eyes, and the wall collapsed into metaphorical rubble.

"Say Voldemort succeeds," she went on, after becoming sure that he had no response. Another good sign; a silent Malfoy was a disarmed Malfoy. "Or, say he manages to prolong this war another five years, ten. You won't ever be able to have a family, unless you want to see them tortured, used as leverage in order to further whichever revolting cause Voldemort wants pushed forward. Your children will be raised as hopelessly as your father raised you." Hermione tilted her head to one side mockingly, as if a thought had just occurred to her. "Even now you must feel the effects. All the wizarding world hates your father, which means they hate you by extension. And those who pretend otherwise would only use you to garner for power for themselves.

"The only friends you've got are afraid of you. They take classes with you, and they share your Common Room, but they all wish they'd never had to know you, Slytherin or not." Hermione laughed softly, her breath blowing against the skin of Draco's lips. "And while we're on the subject of pathetic behavior, why _is_ it exactly that you can't stand Slughorn? Is it perhaps because he makes you aware of how far your precious family name has fallen? Had he come to teach last year, I daresay Slughorn would have bent over backwards to fill you with smoke and compliments. Now he only pities you. I would even say he hates the look of you."

With those words Hermione stepped away from him, turning towards the table and packing her things.

"I'll leave you to clean this up." She said, and it was the glow of triumph that haloed her face, romping wildly amongst the corners of her upturned lips, that broke Draco from the spell he'd been under.

"We're not finished here!" He cried, immediately hating the whiny current that practically saturated his words. It seemed that only Granger could make him feel like a petulant child.

"I think we are," Hermione said, full-on chortling now.

Infuriated, Draco lunged forward and spun her around, backing her against the table with both hands planted firmly on its surface on either side of her waist.

"Oh no, you are not going anywhere." The cauldron behind her wobbled precariously as she thrashed against him, trying to break through the block he had on either side of her. She felt her cheeks grow hot, her lack of control suddenly too blistering and insistent to ignore. His body heat radiated from his forearms, which pressed against her waist and permeated her clothes with humidity. She could practically feel her hair frizzing from it.

"Since we seem to be analyzing each other's weaknesses," he said, his expression suddenly bright and cheery. "Allow me to opportunity to enlighten you further as to your own. After all, you're such a big fan of talking things out, aren't you?

"Maybe I am doomed to misery, Granger; I really don't doubt it, if you want to know the truth. Either way, I suppose it doesn't really matter, but I would like to point out one thing to you." His gaze flickered between her eyes and it was her turn to be trapped by him. "What about you? Not only are you muggle-born, you're Potter's personal assistant, following him about and making sure the poor bloody hero gets his chicken scratches mended properly – fluffing him up, encouraging him in all your glorified beliefs. That practically paints a target right onto your back, don't you think? The minute you leave Hogwarts you're in danger. Your very existence puts even your revolting muggle parents at risk, and I'd bet anything that the only reason they haven't been slaughtered in their beds yet is because then there won't be anything to lure you back home.

"That can't feel good, really. And I do pity you, Granger. You're already all alone, having driven away the only tolerance your noxious personality has ever managed to hold onto."

He smiled down at her. Well, it was really more of a leer, and he leaned so close to her that their noses almost touched.

"All of your pride, and your precious knowledge, and love of order and propriety – _those_ things mean nothing Granger, without the Light. And once the Dark Lord succeeds, you'll be worse than faceless. You'll be the first one gutted in the name of blood purity."

"You're _disgusting_ ," The words burst from her lips with the greatest amount of feeling she could muster, but he drowned her out with his own words.

"Maybe!" He cried, a half-crazed gleam taking over his countenance." He was touching enough of her that Draco felt it when she began to shake, her hands covering her face from him. A flush of sweet victory stole over him and he allowed her to hide, if only because it might encourage her to cry, and those tears were the only thing that could make him stop now. "You'll be alone forever, and I genuinely hope you're prepared to live out the rest of your days as a spinster waiting for a painful death. Perhaps you should have opened those prudish legs to Weasley when you had the chance. Then, at least, you might've had some hope of trapping yourself a husband. The two of you could've made a home in the basement of that pig's hovel Weasley calls a home, at least until the new order comes to tear it down around you and claim your bodies. Now I suppose it's too late for that, isn't it? Now that he sees you for what you really are – nothing more than a bookish, Mudblood _bitch –_ positively desperate for attention, desperate to hide your inferiorities behind all your memorised facts and spells."

Though Draco fully believed that to see her cry would be the only thing to stop him in his savage tracks, he was wrong; he quickly learned otherwise as Granger pulled her hands from her face – complete with the driest eyes possible – and slapped him across his cheek (the same cheek that had only recently lost the glowing bruise from Potter's attacks those three weeks ago), hard enough that his head rocked back on his neck and his eyes widened in thoughtless, wordless shock. He stumbled back a few paces, but she matched him with quick steps forward, her finger pointed indignantly in his face as she spoke with tearing language.

"I may have lost my friends, perhaps forever. I may be in danger, and I may be killed the moment I return home, for all I know, but those things don't matter to me. I've always had a reason for the things I've done. I've never been without conviction, and therefore I've never been without self-respect, which is more than you will ever be able to say for yourself." She snapped. "I don't imagine it's easy to be you, Malfoy. I've seen enough of your father - I know enough of your father. But if you think that's an excuse to barrel your way through life with your head down, shrouding yourself in your own cowardice at the expense of others, you're wrong. You're still accountable, and you'll never hear otherwise from me."

She shoved past him violently, turning only to say, "I'm only sorry that you can't realise that. I really am."

With only a look of insepid hatred – strong enough to shrivel the balls of any respectable man – she strode towards the dungeon door and flung it open, but she hadn't left quickly enough to stop Draco from seeing the tears brim traitorously in her eyes.

Once she was gone, Draco moved his hand away from his face, where it had been cradling his stinging cheek, wondering how long she'd been holding those tears in. It seemed to have taken him hours to extract them from her.

" _Repairo,_ " he muttered, pointing his wand at the mess on the floor. And as the shattered pieces of his mortar bowl mended themselves, he slumped into his stool, trying desperately to quash the regret that threatened to overcome him.

* * *

 _ **Author's Note:**_

Hey, guys! I know the next chapter has been a long time coming, I hope you'll all forgive me for the wait, what with the holidays just ending. I also hope that each of you found some real enjoyment in the last week, that you've all spent some quality time with those you love and perhaps got a few really cool presents? :p I myself had an amazing Christmas, but now it's back to writing for me!

Thank you all for your amazing reviews. _**DaOneInDaCorner**_ , your review was magnificent. Honestly, you've got a way of writing that really makes me feel as if you're talking to me! I appreciate your appreciation :) For the rest of you who've been keeping up with reviews (Once again I've got to point you out, MusicAngel) I'm so incredibly glad that you all liked the chapter! The next one is very promising, I assure you:)

I'd also like to promise that it will be up within a day or two. I only have to finish the last bit, and then I want to revise a little.

Thanks for all your patience, and happy belated Christmas to you all!

Yours Truly,

Emma Perry.


	9. Time Apart and Ghosting Regret

Chapter Nine –

Draco ran a hand over his mouth and sighed; it was time to leave, she wasn't coming, and he was hungry. But was he surprised? No, he couldn't say that. Two weeks had passed already since that blowout with Granger, the one that had left him with the distinct feeling of being smaller than he usually was… Two weeks, and four lessons she'd conveniently forgotten now.

Up until now Draco would catch up with her after each time he was stood up, and it was never hard to find her; she never avoided him, and he'd even go as far as to say she was perfectly civil. All three conversations had played along the same lines: He'd approach her while studying alone, or would get her attention after class, and he'd ask her what her blasted problem was.

"I'm sorry, Malfoy, I've just got _so_ much to handle." She'd say, not even a hint of resentment or reproach in her tone. "I'm sure you can study alone later on. You've all but caught up now, I think."

But she wouldn't look at him, not really. Her eyes would flick to his for the most fleeting of moments, and then they would focus on something else, like the beds of her nails or the cover of her book.

Each time he asked her when their next lesson would be. What he was really asking was whether or not she was going to cancel them altogether, whether he would ever meet her there, in the dungeon again; but for whatever reason, Draco's logic was that to ask her such a thing, so directly, would be like admitting to something he never wanted to speak out loud.

She would frown thoughtfully for a moment, and then she would sigh lightly. "I guess we'll see." The eyes would flick to his, and then the eyes would focus away from him. And then he would wonder ridiculously if he was there at all.

This time, however, was different, and it was because now Draco understood that Granger had given up the lessons the moment she tore through the classroom door.

He looked around at the things he'd brought, the powdered moonstone, the mortar and pestle; she'd left them when he last saw her, and now the thought occurred to him that Granger had probably purchased these ingredients herself. He supposed she might've borrowed from Slughorn's store, or perhaps she'd been given funds, but Granger seemed like the type who would order them and pay for them on her own. The perfectionist in her would demand that sort of thing, for all aspects to be under her control. She'd even drawn up a _syllabus_ , Draco remembered with an inward snort. She'd done all this, he realized, to teach someone she hardly liked, and Draco had to fight with himself to picture this as laughable, as something that did nothing to cause him regret or guilt.

Still, however… Perhaps he would find her, just to return her things.

Just to return her things.

* * *

So far Hermione had been extremely fortunate that, no matter how strenuous keeping up with her coursework became, she could usually count on the weekend to tie up all her loose ends. And now that she had two more hours every week to herself, she even began to allow herself to believe that she really might just get a handle on it all. She used her free periods for all the upcoming assignments she had due, and now that she no longer had many people to talk to, she could use her lunch and dinner times to study as she ate; no interruptions from Ron, waving a chicken leg in her face and saying something ridiculous, no more Harry leaning in with an urgent expression, hissing about Death Eaters and conspiracies.

Of course, that also meant that Hermione was no longer a part of the laughs she watched them share sometimes, during moments of weakness when she would break from studying and glance down at them, clustered with Lavender and Ginny, Dean and Seamus. It broke her heart to see them that way, quite frankly, because it was as if they'd all had their memories wiped of her completely.

Logically, Hermione knew Harry and Ron still remembered her. Sometimes the way they ignored her seemed too deliberate, like in Charms for instance, during which they sat at the table right in front of her. But now even Ginny had given up any pretense of making peace, it seemed, as there were no more glances from her to Hermione or consoling frowns.

Now, she sat on a patch of soft grass facing the Black Lake, staring at its surface as her Defense text book lay open and neglected in front of her, its flaps wide open as if it were a child reaching out its arms to be picked up; but she thought again and again of her friends, of how deeply she missed just being near them, in their company; and the way the lake glinted with rays from the afternoon sun was at least comforting, in some way.

She shut her eyes, so tight she could hear the strain of her muscles. She didn't want to cry again, not after having done it at such an inconvenient moment the last time; she never wanted another person to see her that way again. Yes, Hermione Granger was, as a rule, a highly emotional being. But the emotions of her what her life had become were so different, so much more real and raw than the emotions she'd been used to, and she couldn't imagine being comfortable with anyone seeing _that_ sort of hurt.

Which, was probably why it made her cheeks burn with a red, nearly sweat-inducing vengeance whenever she recalled the way she'd cried in front of Malfoy.

During that fight they'd had two weeks ago, Hermione had become certain – the moment he brought up her parents, actually – that that was what Draco had wanted; he wanted to see her cry, he wanted to win. And she really did hold it together quite well, but at the end her emotions had trampled her will, and she was positive beyond the shadow of a doubt that Draco had managed to get himself a satisfactory view of her humiliation.

She settled further against the squat little tree she leant back on and nuzzled her chin more deeply into the folds of her scarf. The wind was biting that day, but the numbing pain seemed to hold a charm for her in the way it scrubbed her skin raw. Perhaps it was because it was comforting to have the illusion that her exterior was beginning to match her interior. Raw, blistered, and cold as ice.

No Harry, no Ron, no Ginny, even. All who remained was Neville, who was pleasant and had this way of grinning sweetly at Hermione's jokes or comments that made her heart swell with affection, but he was no substitute. He had always been her friend, anyway, so it wasn't as if he could fill more than his own hole in her soul.

She watched as a ripple across the reflective surface of the Black Lake grew in circumference, and wondered just what Hogwarts was without her friends; sure, she still had her smarts, those would probably never leave her, _but what was Hogwarts,_ without them? She thought back to a certain day only a few months ago, when she'd begun to question the safety of the castle, the warmth and protection it had to offer; those had been perilous musings, which would have led nowhere but to despair, but something had brought her back to that warmth… It was seeing Harry, smiling down his shoulder at Ginny, putting his arm around her shoulder and pulling her in close. It had been that she was once again near them and with them and speaking to them that had made all the hazard and looming doom seem worth it.

And now that they were gone? What did she feel now? What could fix it?

Even during the third year, when she and Ron had been quarreling over Crookshanks (which, of course, she'd turned out right on _that_ front as well, hadn't she?) Harry had still been there, always the most reasonable of her two closest friends. But now that Harry was the one who'd initiated this break in their friendship, it seemed that Ron was more than willing to follow his lead.

It was with a savage sort of bitterness that Hermione thought, _that's all Ron ever does though, isn't it? He always follows._

Draco had probably been right, she realized, her face once again muttering an expression of loathsome embarrassment: when he'd said that she was only " _shoving herself down his throat"_ because she was all alone, he'd hit the nail right on its head. He'd hit the target, he'd whacked the mole. Of course, there had been other reasons – much more humiliating reasons – she'd tried to get closer to him, but thankfully her subconscious seemed to agree with her that those particular memories should be repressed, at least for the time being.

Quite suddenly, Hermione realized she was being trampled.

"Oh, I'm sorry – do forgive me."

It was Luna Lovegood, sounding more flustered and animated than Hermione had ever heard her. Her round blue eyes focused on Hermione as she extricated herself from the mess she'd made.

"Hello Hermione, I didn't see you sitting here." She said, much more sanguine now.

"Obviously." Hermione sniffed, dabbing the sleeve of her robes against the bottom of her eyes, realizing in mild embarrassment that tears had started swimming there. "What are you doing here, Luna?"

"I always come to the lake on Saturdays." Luna replied, her voice like a mild breeze. Shockingly enough, Hermione was instantly comforted by it. The phrase _starved for company_ floated through her mind in capital letters. Luna's eyes scanned the Lake before them. "Quite a peaceful sight, is it not?"

"I suppose it is," Hermione agreed softly.

For minutes on end the two girls simply sat together under the tree; Hermione wondered why Luna couldn't always be so benign, while Luna thought of how beautiful the Lake must look from under the water, to all the creatures that made homes in its depths. As a little girl Luna always loved swimming deep in the river that flowed continuously near the house she lived in with her father. She'd turn herself over in the water and marvel as she floated up and up and up – at the way the light broke into dancing fractals upon its fluid surface. From that angle that surface looked to Luna more like a portal into another world, made from some sort of sapphire plasma.

Absently, she turned her orb-like eyes onto Hermione, and an immediate question popped into Luna's mind as she looked at her.

"Have you been crying, Hermione?"

"Did it really take you that long to notice?" Hermione replied, immediately defensive. "Aren't Ravenclaws supposed to be observant?"

"I noticed." Luna replied, rather dryly. But as she went on her voice once again took on that sanguine quality. "I was hard to miss, actually. You have the sort of face that pinches when you cry. I only thought it would be more polite if I waited for you to finish before I asked."

"How kind of you," Hermione snorted at the girl's honesty. "Although, perhaps the most appropriate thing to do would have been to ignore it altogether."

Luna pursed her lips thoughtfully. "I would have, but I thought since you've got no one else to ask you at the moment, that you might like to have the opportunity to talk about it." She said, and once again Hermione smiled, her eyebrows rising to her hairline. "My father always says that bad feelings should be let out of their cages. Otherwise they try to claw their way out on their own."

"I'd really rather not talk about it, thank you, Luna." Hermione said patiently. In her usual way of unperturbed peacefulness, Luna only looked away and fell into examining the Lake once more. However, only a few moments passed this time before she began to speak again, and Hermione had to hide her frown behind her scarf.

"I know what it's like to be alone, you know. Most people don't understand me, so they don't typically like me. We have that in common, you and I, wouldn't you say?" All at once Hermione grew incredibly uncomfortable, not only because Luna was comparing them in such a sad matter, but also because she felt sure, all of a sudden, that Luna considered her to be one of the people who didn't like her because they didn't understand her. She briefly recalled the first time they'd met, and how it ended with Luna pretty much calling Hermione narrow-minded. "Sometimes, though, all you really need _is_ to be alone. If you change your perspective I'm sure you wouldn't feel so badly about it. After all, one's mind speaks the loudest to them if no one else will."

Luna, with her supreme knack for interpreting those waves and auras people often sent through the air, felt Hermione melt considerably beside her.

"People find you irritating, you know." She said, and went on even as she felt Hermione bristle. "People find me strange. The both of us only have friends through other people, I daresay. But, if you ask me, you and I are smarter than most people, and we care more than most people, so doesn't that mean that eventually we'll end up happier than we are now?"

Hermione, for the first time, really looked at Luna.

"Aren't you happy, Luna?"

"Well, of course I'm happy. I just spend more time than I'd like keeping things to myself. No one thinks I see anything, but really, I see everything."

Hermione grinned. "I can believe that."

Neither of them spoke, once again, for a long time. Hermione couldn't help but wonder at how uncharacteristically wise Luna seemed now. Although, _was_ it uncharacteristic? She supposed she couldn't say that, given how little she actually knew about Luna's character. Up until this moment, however, all Hermione had heard from this small, wide-eyed, blonde girl was nonsense about Crumple-Horned Snorkacks and goblin-related conspiracies. For the first time it occurred to Hermione that there was a reason Luna was a Ravenclaw.

In the middle of Hermione's musings, Luna spoke once more.

"It's actually odd that I've run into you. I was looking for you, and I'd only just given up when I came down here. Funny coincidence, wouldn't you say?"

"Why were you looking for me?" Hermione asked, her feelings towards Luna considerably warmer than they had been before.

"Professor McGonagall ran into me outside the Great Hall after lunch, and she's asked me to tell you that the Headmaster wishes to speak with you."

"Why didn't you say earlier, Luna?" Hermione said, sighing in exasperation as she stood up and dusted the dead leaves from the back of her trousers. She peered down at Luna with an expression of mounting annoyance.

Luna shrugged, once again apparently unbothered. "He probably only wants to hear about what happened between Harry and Draco Malfoy. I thought it was best to let you calm down before sending you along." Luna turned her startling blue eyes up to Hermione, speaking next as though a thought had just occurred to her. "Are you friends with Draco Malfoy? Everyone knows you two have been spending more time than usual together."

Hermione felt a sardonic bubble of laughter pass through her lips. "No, Luna. He and I could never be friends."

As Hermione turned to leave, she stopped, suddenly wanting to say something to someone who had so unthinkingly offered such comfort.

"Thank you, Luna." She said, hoping that Luna could tell how much she meant it.

"See you, Hermione." Luna replied dreamily, her gaze drifting lazily back toward the Lake, most likely picturing herself as a Grindylow

* * *

As hungry as he was, Draco decided that the best thing to do would be to go to Madam Pomfrey for some sort of cure for his blasted headache. Perhaps she would give him a small store of whatever she had available, considering how often he seemed to be sporting a throbbing cranium these days.

They weren't typical headaches, like the sort one might get from reading in the dark or not getting enough sleep. The headaches Draco had fallen victim to so often lately were the sort that sprouted up somewhere near the base of his skull, like some malignant, all-consuming weed, and sent its roots unfurling through every nerve in his brain. They only went away, it seemed, when he was able to stop thinking about the pain; the only problem was that the pain was often so intense that no trick of will could stifle it. The pain simply wouldn't be ignored.

He decided to take the longest route possible to the Hospital Wing, even going quite out of his way at one point so that he could cut outside the castle walls, feeling that fresh air might just do him wonders. He found himself winding down an outdoor corridor that was far enough away from the main grounds of the castle that Draco could fully consider himself in a detour. While his head throbbed and his mouth frowned down at his rapidly pounding feet, a sudden impulse to look up took hold of him, and in a moment he was seeing Granger curled underneath a gum tree by the Black Lake.

He stopped dead in his tracks.

Yes, he had planned to find her at least once more before he began pretending she no longer existed. If only to give her back her things, he'd told himself. However, looking at her now, a sudden conviction stole over Draco that to approach her would somehow be… unforgiveable? If that was the right word. All he could tell of his own feelings was that he couldn't imagine any positive outcome from traipsing over to her and casually returning anything. Even if he'd had a thousand Galleons to give her and the Dark Lord's liver in a canvas rucksack, she'd've probably cursed him into oblivion and danced upon the sight of his death.

He wasn't sure how he knew this, as from this distance he could hardly make out that it was even Granger under that tree, but apparently, he knew her well enough to read her mood from the other side of such a chasm.

As he watched, a figure with a stooped head and arms that swung wildly as she walked went closer and closer to Granger, until finally she collapsed over her and they fell into a tangle of body parts. From where he stood Draco could hear Granger squeal, and he smiled in the throes of greatest amusement as he realized it was Looney Lovegood who'd just trampled over her.

Draco didn't know many things about Lovegood, but he'd come across her enough times to become well acquainted with that stark air of discomfort that just seemed to swirl around her pale blonde head. Apparently her oddness was common knowledge, as most people Draco knew avoided her except for when playing half-witted tricks on her, and he fully expected that Granger would not take too kindly to being mowed over in her current state of mood.

However, as he looked on the two girls untangled themselves, and then they simply sat under the tree together, looking off in separate directions. He was transfixed, rooted to the spot, suddenly thinking once again of his last, genuine exchange with Granger, before the cold civility and pandering excuses had taken its place.

He thought of the color-coded chart in his bag, listing the ingredients and directions for the Draught of Peace they'd never finished. He wasn't sure why he still carried it; maybe because the thing vexed him, with the way she had even cast a protective charm over the parchment in order to keep it from getting mussed over use. She was forever doing things like that, he realized. Little things, small things that no one else in their right mind would think to do. Because really, what was the point of the protective charm? Wasn't he only meant to use it once? What was the point of the chart itself, even, when he had a perfectly good outline in his Potions text?

And then he recalled his own words, shouted so hatefully into her face, her mask of concealed hurt.

He had hurt her; it was what he'd meant to do, after all, and the way she'd cried as she stormed from the classroom had marked his success in that area. As he watched the girls, sitting rather peacefully under that tree, her heard his voice echo back to him as though from very far away.

" _Nothing more than a bookish, Mudblood_ bitch _,"_

They were followed closely by an image of that earnest expression she'd adorned weeks before that throw-down, when she'd said, "I'm trying to _help_ you, Draco."

As shameful as the things he'd said had been (and no, even now Draco was not quite ready to say that he'd acted shamefully), he now fully comprehended the heavy, vital truth behind them. A vivid flashback to the aftermath of the Quidditch World Cup (which now felt as if it had all happened in another life, like he had been someone else entirely back then, hanging out as comfortably as you please in the woods, waiting for his father to finish his business with that lot of muggles) when he'd threated Granger because of her blood-status. He'd only done it to get a satisfactory rise out of Potter, and especially Weasley who Draco, even at that time, had known quite clearly harbored more tender feelings towards her. But now it finally hit him that if Lucius had chanced to see Hermione, if he had caught her as she fled from her campsite, he'd have whisked her right up there with those muggles, right up there with the other children. They all – the Death Eaters, that is – all knew who she was, as obsessed as they were with Potter. They hated her as purely and unheedingly as they hated the blood-traitor Weasley's, and because of that, when the Dark Lord finally took full power, Granger's name really would be at the top of the Killing List. He'd thrown that barb at her – sure, you bet, loads of times – so much that the words meant practically nothing to him. But it was the truth, and the sudden light of _that_ , with its tinny, pale cruelty, nearly made him want to vomit.

Despite what everyone in his world seemed to think, violence was not Draco's forte. It never had been. Sure, he was on the cowardly side, so that had quite a bit to do with it; the sight of blood made him nauseated, and tortured cries were not exactly easy-listening music to his ears. But beyond that, such darkness was offensive to him. This was perhaps the very first moment that he even realized this about himself, but it was so true that it scared him enough to make his toes curl in his shoes. _Even then_ he thought, half-wildly, his head throbbing so painfully it almost blinded him, _even at the World Cup, I didn't like it. I didn't want him to do it. I didn't want to watch._

Another memory tried to surface, one from the previous summer he'd spent in such close proximity with his (up until then) estranged aunt and her fellow crazed cohorts, but he refused it. It was an instinct to refuse that memory, his mind did it all on its own, as if it knew that it really would make him dry-heave with self-revulsion, self-hate.

Then, all at once, the memory he wouldn't recall vanished back into its dank hidey-hole in his subconscious as he noticed when Lovegood seemed to turn her head, seemed to say something to Granger… And then, hadn't she replied? Yes, they were having a conversation.

And the desire to know what they were saying swept over him in frenzy.

In the breath of a moment completely void of rational thought, Draco extracted his wand from the pocket of his trousers and twirled it over his head, as though using a baton to wrap himself in folds of ribbon. A sensation of being enveloped followed as he muttered a hurried, yet purposeful incantation under his breath, and then he held his hands in front of his face, checking over his work; once again, Draco had managed to pull off the closest degree of invisibility one could hope to achieve through the Disillusionment Charm. Of course, if anyone had looked directly at Draco, purposefully looking for him, they would notice the superficial way the light bent around his figure, distorting the image of the stone support-columns behind him, but who would know where to look? If he could just creep up to them, no sound, at the proper angle…

Just as he was about to vault himself over the wide stone railing in front of him and jog down to Granger and Lovegood, a smattering of voices came chirping from his left, and he had to back away rather hastily to keep Potter from colliding with his disguised form. He and Weasley pulled themselves up and sat on the very spot of the bannister Draco had just been about to fling himself over. Their legs dangled over the side as they chuckled heartily between themselves, and the sounds of their superficial happiness made Draco squirm with antipathy.

"I can't believe it's still so funny," Weasley chortled, wiping his index finger under his eye.

"The look on your face has been permanently stored in my memory." Potter laughed. "Just dangling there, with your knickers bunching up at your arse. I think that'll always have its charm, mate."

"Can you imagine what Hermione would say if she knew? Probably go on and on for hours about illegitimate spells, all sorts of bollocks, she would." Weasley ventured, and Potter's face immediately curdled. Weasley frowned in consternation, as though he'd forgotten that Granger was meant to be taboo.

"Yeah, well, she doesn't know." Potter replied tersely. "She wouldn't, would she? Keeping herself away, too proud to apologize." He let his bag drop from his shoulders onto the floor behind him, right at Draco's feet, but for the moment Draco was too befuddled to notice, his eyebrows drawing high on his forehead. _Granger_ was too proud?

"She's always been that way." Weasley nodded in agreement. "I wonder when she'll suck it up though, I could really use her help with that Silencing Charm. I can't seem to nail the movement, I always end up-"

Potter shot Ron a dark look, and Weasley mumbled something like, "Only joking, mate, relax."

Over Potter's shoulder Draco could see Granger stand and say something over her shoulder to Looney Lovegood, and then she walked away. Draco had lost his chance to hear what she'd said, to hear if she'd mentioned him, or what had happened between them, or what she was bloody _thinking_ about it all. And God knew he couldn't tell her real thoughts from the few brief and painful conversations they'd had over the past fortnight.

Incensed, Draco had to hold himself back from whopping a healthy blow to the back of Potter's fat head. His glance happened upon that bag, which seemed to glow with invitation behind the two dolts, who had moved on to the topic of Quidditch. Draco lunged forward quietly and opened Potter rucksack, rifling through its contents with deft fingers.

He wasn't quite sure what his aim was, he only knew that he wanted to take something from him that might mean something to the blasted half-wit. Book after book met his grasp, as well as an immense fold of yellowed parchment that seemed blank upon first glance. Finally, Draco's fingers closed upon Harry's copy of _Advanced Potion-Making_ , and he smiled meanly. It wasn't as if he thought taking the book would suddenly cause Potter to bomb in his future Potions lessons, but still… It was something of a token, and so Draco lifted the book from Potter's bag and stowed it in his robes, holding it clamped under his armpit, his body feeling significantly hotter from the exhilaration of having stolen from such an oaf.

He laughed quietly to himself, from the time he left Potter and Weasley, through his journey to the Slytherin dormitories, right up until he lit a blazing fire in the hearth of his room. He tossed Potter's book into the flames, where it landed upon the logs with a sound of cracking wood, sending tongues of embers exploding the way autumn leaves might burst from under the body of the laughing child who'd just thrown himself into a pile of them. He watched while it burned, a contented smile resting lazily across his features.

* * *

Luckily for Hermione, finding Professor McGonagall was not at all difficult. The moment she stepped through the doors into the Entrance Hall, she could hear McGonagall barking at Peeves the Poltergeist, who'd once again been wreaking havoc, this time by pulling the tails of students' shirts as he whizzed past them, yanking them with him several feet before he let them go.

After Peeves had zoomed away, cackling in that patented, maddening way of his, McGonagall turned to Hermione and nearly collided with her, her mouth fixed in a line of fury.

"Oh, I'm sorry, Miss Granger, you came out of nowhere." McGonagall said as Hermione jumped back a foot or two in alarm. "It'll be the day when Peeves is banished from these walls forever."

"I see he's causing you trouble again," Hermione grinned in a commiserating way. "I've actually come to find you, though. I've just been with Luna Lovegood, and she's told me-"

"Yes, yes, the Headmaster is looking for you." McGonagall waved her hand impatiently, and Hermione received the distinct impression that today was not the professor's best. "He's probably in his office as we speak – you'll want to go see him now, if you can. You'll need the password, of course. It's Lemon Merengue, if I'm not mistaken."

"Thank you, Professor."

"Yes, well, off you go Miss Granger." As Hermione turned away she heard the professor mutter, "enjoy your youth while you have it – everything gets harder when you're older."

As Hermione made her way toward the Headmaster's office, she couldn't help but note the low, electric current lining her belly; no part of her doubted that what Luna had said was true, that Dumbledore wanted to know exactly what had happened between Harry and Draco. He would have, of course, learned Harry's side of the story by now, but Hermione was sure that Dumbledore wasn't exactly counting on Harry's point of view as particularly unbiased. However, she remembered the last time she had met with Dumbledore as well.

The first meeting had been as unexpected as they come, but for the past fortnight Hermione had been counting on these summons, dreading them, even; she had not only abandoned the post Dumbledore himself set for her (and although he had never actually told her of his wishes, Hermione was no fool), but she had also failed miserably in Dumbledore's high-strung faith that she could earn Harry's confidence. She was meant to be helping him, probably at this very moment, and yet he hadn't spoken so much as a word to her in over a month.

Of course, she didn't expect in the least Dumbledore should be furious with her – that was hard to imagine - an angry, resentful Dumbledore; but she couldn't picture any positive outcome. All she could imagine was bitter disappointment, and with every step she took toward the stone gargoyle, which was fast approaching, she seemed unable to keep from mentally berating herself. Expected this meeting, she had; although she could no longer deny that she had spent quite some time absorbed in her own thoughts and feelings, allowing herself to ignore the fundamental importance of what she was meant to be doing. There was no way of telling what he would say or do with regards to Draco, as she still wasn't completely certain of what his initial aim in pairing them together had been, but she did know that Dumbledore, like McGonagall had said, always had a reason for the things he put into play.

" _Lemon Merengue,"_ Hermione said, her voice clear and more stable than she felt. The gargoyle leapt aside, and Hermione stepped up the spiral staircase with the heartbeat of a hummingbird's wings.

She knocked on the door, heard him call, "enter," and in she stepped.

The light fell upon Dumbledore's desk, behind which he stood, turned toward the wall of portraits; he had apparently been speaking to one of them whom Hermione had been unable to catch a glance at before they walked from their frame and out of sight.

His hands were clasped behind his back as he greeted Hermione, turning his head over his shoulder and smiling easily enough.

"I take it you have heard that I wished to see you?" He said, sweeping his hand in the direction of the armchair across his desk. He sat down himself, still smiling as she took her seat. "I was hoping you might turn up sooner, rather than later. Thank you for your time, again, Miss Granger. It does not escape me that I seem to be demanding quite a bit of it these days."

"Don't mention it," Hermione said. She knotted her hands on her lap and chewed her bottom lip, unable to think of a thing to say.

When she looked up, the Headmaster was peering at her with a keen expression on his face. "Why is it that you always seem to anticipate the worst when we meet?" He asked, in a tone of concerned amusement. "I will tell you the same thing I told you last time, if only to set your mind at ease: you are not in any trouble, Hermione."

"Oh! No, sir." Hermione blurted, her cheeks turning pink.

Dumbledore quite rightly pretended not to notice. He cast his eyes away to stare casually out the window. "I have only called you here to ask you to describe what transpired between Harry and Mr. Malfoy, once everyone returned from Hogsmeade."

Hermione nodded and rather stammered her way through a narrative which outlined everything that happened after Ron and Harry came back to the castle with Hagrid, carrying Katie Bell. Then, before she could stop herself, she began telling him of everything that happened afterward, how Harry and Ron have refused to speak with her, how they resented her for standing up for Malfoy, how she'd given up their lessons and how she'd been virtually alone, for what felt like years.

"I'm so sorry, Professor Dumbledore," She finished lamely. "I really don't know what to do – I can't think of a thing to say to either of them – they're so angry with me. Harry- he won't even look at me! I know how important it is that I stay close to him, but he won't even look at me."

Instead of replying, Dumbledore began asking questions. Quietly, kindly, but Hermione wished he would leave her alone for just a moment or two, simply so that she could collect herself.

"Draco was with you all day, you say?"

"Yes, and more importantly, he was with me when Katie was cursed."

"Harry knows this, of course?"

"Yes,"

"And I'm assuming, of course, that Mr. Weasley likewise has not accepted that truth."

"No, sir." Hermione licked her lips nervously. "Forgive me, Professor, but I've already told you all of this."

"Quite right, you have." Dumbledore nodded solemnly. "However, at this age I seem to need everything in absolute clarity before I can think properly."

She wished that he would say something – anything – about his feelings on the subject. She wished he would go on and profess his disappointment, or perhaps even tell her how to make things right. All she really wanted, she supposed, was some sort of direction to take. If Dumbledore told her to apologize to Harry, no matter how it grated against her pride, she would have done it, if only because Dumbledore always knew best, and it also seemed that doing nothing was the worst part of her existence at this point.

But for several minutes Professor Dumbledore was lost in his own musings; she couldn't begin to fathom what was going on behind his eyes, what sort of storms of conjecture were brewing there in his mind, but she wanted them to hurry up a little, go a little faster.

Just as she was about to meekly call for his attention (something Hermione never would have done if she'd been in her right, anxiety-free mind), he looked up at her once more and gave her a weary smile.

"I apologize…" He began slowly. The light from the sun which flooded the richly decorated office suddenly dulled, and greyed. Hermione imagined the great ball of fire sheathed in a thick, stormy cloud, and that did nothing to loosen the depression of her heart. "There simply seems to be so much to think about. One can almost say that it is hard to keep up with them all."

"Professor…" Hermione started, licking her lips once more; her mouth felt like a dry, sandy cavern somewhere in the Sahara. "I'm the one who should apologize – again. I feel as if I've failed you on all counts."

"You have not failed me, Hermione." Dumbledore said, and to her surprise, he chuckled lightly and began fiddling his hands as he leaned towards her. "In fact, I would not change a thing about your actions on the day Miss Bell was cursed, nor any actions you've taken since."

Hermione felt her mouth hang open slightly, felt each breath she took in dry her tongue even further. And then she closed it, feeling certain that Dumbledore pitied her, all of a sudden.

"Hermione, I am sure you understand why it is dangerous for Harry to keep on this track of obsession, regarding Mr. Malfoy?" Hermione nodded, and still Dumbledore went on to explain. "He cannot lose sight of his real objective, which I have revealed to him time and time again each instant I meet with him. The overwhelming truth of the situation is that it does not matter a bit whether or not Draco is a Death Eater, or if he is completely innocent, as there is nothing Harry can do about it either way. He _must_ focus on the goal ahead.

"He has rather allowed himself to become blinded by prejudice, has allowed himself to become distracted from his mission. It was Harry's choice alone to push you away. You have done nothing to warrant it, as from what you've told me, you were only trying to play the part of a true friend."

His eyes, which had only moments ago been boring into Hermione's with that usual precision of focus, softened considerably. Hermione felt the weight of them on her shoulders, as if Dumbledore was trying to send her mental waves of comfort. Her body fought them off of its own volition, and she looked away from him, hating that feeling of being pitied.

"At this moment you feel more alone than you ever have," he continued, his softened tone beating against Hermione's conscience like a bull-whip. "I should think, Miss Granger, that you would not choose such a path for yourself lightly. You have only done what anyone would expect of such an upstanding individual: You've defended someone you believe to be innocent, despite the fallout that would inevitably follow. Harry needs such people in his life, people who will not allow for his whims or sit back while he distracts himself from more painful thoughts and actions."

Hermione hid her face in her hands, all at once sure that she was going to cry. She felt her face burn, all the way up to her hairline, with mortification of the acutest kind; she did not want to cry in front of Dumbledore. She did not want him to see her so damned weak.

"I don't know how to fix it, though," she said, the sound of her voice muffled by her hands. "I know that I need to fix it, and I want to fix it so badly. I miss them every single moment of the day, even in my dreams I think of them and I miss them. But they won't even look at me, sir. They won't even look at me."

She heard the armchair across from her creak a little as Dumbledore leant back, but she wasn't able to see how he studied her with grave sadness.

"I will only say this once more, Hermione: You have done nothing wrong. You cannot continue to abuse yourself so, or your mind will cease to be the sharp tool you and I value and need so highly." Dumbledore said, and while his tone was stern, it was not unkind. "Harry has made his own choices, and Mr. Weasley has, of course, followed suit. But things will not remain this way, I can nearly promise you that."

"Have I done the right thing, though?" Hermione asked, looking up to meet Dumbledore's eyes once again. He didn't seem to notice how her own streamed with tears, but the humiliation she felt was not to be deterred as it wound its way around her chest and stopped right at her heart. "Malfoy is insufferable. He's always been so – from day one. He may not be evil, but he enjoys being mean. He enjoys toying with Harry and putting down anyone who crosses his path. And I've gone and defended him against the two people in the world besides my parents who mean more to me than anyone!"

"It is interesting that you bring that up," Dumbledore said, in the casual, bright tone of someone who'd suddenly decided to discuss film theories. "You were right, Miss Granger, Draco Malfoy is not evil. And yet everyone who knows him seem to think he is, wouldn't you say?"

He did not wait for her to answer before plowing onward.

"Only last year Harry himself was the pariah of the wizarding world. Very few could look at him without considering him insane, or consider him as one desperate and starved for fame and attention. He was ostracized by his fellow students, by the parents of those fellow students, and hundreds of thousands of other faceless witches and wizards, all of whom thought him a liar… or a crackpot, as the _Daily Prophet_ was fond of putting it.

"And still, Harry had more than Draco Malfoy has: Harry had in his arsenal two loyal friends, and the Order of Phoenix, all of whom believed in and trusted in him. Who has Draco got?"

This time, he studied her face quietly until Hermione felt the need to answer the prompt.

"He hasn't got anyone."

"Precisely! He hasn't got anyone, not even his parents, who most likely expect the worst from him as much as any student out there in those halls." Dumbledore's voice dropped, nearly to a murmur, and Hermione had to lean forward to hear him. She hadn't even realized that she'd stopped crying, she was so absorbed in the conversation. "Anyone will go bad if enough people believe that is their fate. Anyone would cease to want to be good, when not a single person believes they are capable of it. What you did for him was beyond honorable, Miss Granger, because you are, most likely, the only person in his life who would have done so for him."

Hermione scoffed bitterly, unable to help herself, and Dumbledore noted the bitterness with some interest. Her feelings on this account were strong.

"It isn't as if he appreciates it," Hermione muttered.

Dumbledore chuckled once again, and this time Hermione found herself smiling along with him. "No," he said between breaths. "I should say not – not on the surface, at any rate."

After a moment, Hermione said softly, "I feel silly."

"Why should you? I think you have been under a tremendous amount of stress, which would cause anyone to feel a little out-of-sorts, wouldn't you agree? Normal human emotions do not make a silly person.

"However, I would like to ask that you keep an open mind in regards to Draco." Dumbledore continued, back to business. "The same as I would wish you to with Harry. Should either of them wish to make amends, I hope that you will consider them."

Hermione nodded. "Of course, sir."

They sat for a moment longer, Hermione becoming increasingly nervous under Dumbledore's studious gaze. "Is there something else you wish to ask me, Hermione?"

"Actually, yes – but I thought it better to keep it to myself." She said. "I don't want to overstep."

"If one of us is considered to be overstepping, one might safely say that it is I." Dumbledore smiled frankly. "I welcome your questions."

"Was it really Professor Snape's idea to pair Draco with me? For study, I mean." Hermione began, speaking in a rush. "Was it his idea? Or was it yours?"

Dumbledore's smile grew wider, and she spied a faint glimmer in his eye.

"It was my idea, of course." Dumbledore nodded once, as if in approval. "Can you think of why I might have done so?"

"That's another thing I was wondering about, actually…"

The Headmaster did not bother to expound, but rather continued to smile expectantly at Hermione until she squirmed in her seat.

"Does it have anything to do with what you said a moment ago?" She began. "About how Malfoy hasn't got anybody?"

"That may be part of it – yes."

"Why not someone else?" Hermione questioned, her tone growing bolder. "Why not someone who he actually had a chance of liking? He can't stand me, Professor. _We_ can't stand each other, actually, but he takes resentment to a whole new level."

"You've already proven yourself capable, Hermione," Dumbledore replied easily. "You took up his cause against Harry, and I remain positive that Draco understands the worth of your actions, even if he won't admit it. Regardless, there is also the matter of who Draco Malfoy is.

"As I have said, he is not evil by any stretch of the imagination, but he is surrounded by influences who are, and who would push him to be so as well. It would not do well to leave Mr. Malfoy to his own devices in a time like this. He needs to be watched, as much as such a thing goes against my conscience." Dumbledore explained, his expression rather grim. "There are many students, I know, who would be more than capable of helping Draco with his studies. However – as doubtful as this may seem – I believe that few people are as capable of reaching such a troubled soul as someone such as yourself, Hermione."

"I appreciate that, sir, really. Only… I have to disagree. I think I'm the last person on this planet who could ever reach Draco Malfoy."

"Perhaps you are right, but what is the harm in trying?" Dumbledore replied. He straightened in his seat and Hermione received the sense that their meeting was close to its end. "I only ask that you provide the same sort of support to both Harry and Mr. Malfoy that you have been wont to show. That isn't to say that I expect you to forgo your own sense of morality or judgment. Simply be open to them, simply be there. I trust that you can do this?"

Hermione nodded, her lips pursed in thought. Never had she doubted Dumbledore – she did not doubt him even now – but she doubted herself thoroughly. Her mind skipped back to Malfoy's words, his accusation that Harry and Ron were lucky to have gotten rid of her, and she couldn't help but feel that those words were the essence of her insecurity. Suppose he was right… suppose they considered themselves well shot of her. Suppose everyone considered themselves well shot of her. What sort of help could she possibly have to offer anyone?

As she departed, Dumbledore's smile wavered into the frown he'd been holding back for some time. He thought of the way she'd cried in front of him, and he couldn't help but pity her, and feel a stinging sort of contempt for himself, for having meddled in her life so much. However, any and all meddling would prove necessary in the end, wouldn't it? It was all for the greater good. He only regretted that the lives he was shaping were so young, so green, so inexperienced in the grand scheme of things. He only hoped that they, that Harry and Hermione, even Draco Malfoy, would come to realize their own potential and strength.

Albus cast his eyes down to his hand, blackened and grotesque.

 _So little time_ he thought faintly. _There can never be enough, but certainly, I need more than I have._

And slowly, his thoughts trailed back to poor Katie Bell, a completely innocent soul who had been in the wrong place at the wrong time, and he wondered for the thousandth time, how Draco had managed to cause such damage from within the castle walls. The young man was stalling, that much was obvious to him. The attempt at Albus' life had been callous, ill-timed and ill-judged, but the hastiness and the carelessness of it was somehow a good sign, a sign that Draco was unwilling to carry out his mission.

Yet, his carelessness had nearly caused Miss Bell her life. It had nearly cost Drace his own, Albus was sure.

 _So many intricacies..._ His mind whispered, and he cloaked his face with his good hand as his shoulders heaved with an immense, weary sigh.

* * *

As the sun disappeared under the horizon, lined by the massive trees of the Forbidden Forest, Draco launched himself into his usual spot at the Slytherin table. The Great Hall rang with the sounds of laughter, of happy voices and squealing gossip, as Saturday came to a rather peaceful close. Around him, his housemates tucked into their plates and began to eat in earnest, except for Draco, whose plate remained empty and neglected.

He scowled the instant he heard Vincent Crabbe address him, purely instinctively.

"Where were you today?" He said in that dull voice of his. "We waited for you."

"Over an hour, we did," Goyle agreed, speaking up from his spot across from Draco. "Dressed up like girls for nothing, we were."

"I was busy." Draco muttered, trying to keep his temper under control. "Besides, there was no need to go to the Room today. I thought I told you both."

"You didn't." Crabbed quipped, and Draco was certain that he detected a hint of resentment in his words. "If you had, we wouldn't have wasted our time, would we?"

"I'm in no mood for you two today." Draco snapped, and instantly they retreated. Draco could feel their attention pull away from him, but he was sure that he saw them exchange exasperated glances with each other.

What he'd said had been true; he was in absolutely no mood to discuss the Room of Requirement today.

Hardly any progress had been made over the past month, a fact which caused him anxiety of the acutest kind whenever he thought of it. So far, he was sure, he'd logged at least half a day altogether, lurking about the library in search of _anything_ that might help him, any information about how to repair a Vanishing Cabinet. Apparently, the object in and of itself was only a commodity around the time of the Dark Lord's first attempt at waging war, and while the texts he had been able to find described the many atrocities that could (and had) occurred once they'd been broken, there was never any clear path which led to any knowledge of how to mend them.

The more time he spent looking, it seemed, the more tense and anxious he became about the whole matter. It was like trying to navigate through uncharted waters, to reach land that lay beyond a course of haphazard, jagged rocks, specifically designed to bring down ships. Perhaps the comparison seems starkly overdramatic, but from Draco's point of view, which stared straight down a path which led to nothing but wrath and death, it was pretty spot-on.

He chewed his food mechanically, trying to even the breaths which broke through his flared nostrils. He could feel eyes on him, and he tried not to care, merely shutting his own and focusing on the rise and fall of his own chest. At some point, he supposed, he'd even started to fall asleep sitting up, fork still poised precariously in his right hand. He started and looked up and around, for a moment unsure of where he was.

When his mind kicked back into gear a moment later, his gaze automatically traveled over to Granger at the Gryffindor table. She was sitting across from Neville Longbottom, who was staring quite forlornly into a bowl of onion soup. Granger, he realized with a jolt of heat through his chest, was looking at him. Right at Draco, who snapped his mouth shut (which had a moment ago been hanging open with a rather dim slackness), but he didn't look away. He didn't want to. It was the first time she'd really looked at him since they had that ghastly row, and he couldn't help but wonder what had changed.

Had _anything_ changed, or was she simply looking through him, the way people sometimes do when they are trapped in their own thoughts? Was she seeing him? Or would her eyes dance away the moment she became aware that they were on him at all?

Then – and there was no mistaking it – she frowned at him. Her eyes narrowed as quickly as a simple twitch, her brows meeting together and the corners of her mouth turning down. Only then did she look away from him, but he was certain now that she had seen him. He couldn't recall now how long they'd looked at each other, but it seemed to have been long enough for him to once again forget where he was, because in a moment he was making to stand. Perhaps he would have walked straight over to her, perhaps he would have sat down next to her and asked her what she meant by a frown like that.

If she had been alone, and if he had been alone, maybe he would have done that.

But they were in the Great Hall, and suddenly she seemed so very far away from him. The eyes of everyone around him seemed to glow with heat, as if they might jump onto him and accuse him of something if he so much as stood up fully. And so Draco sat down, and he looked at his own plate once more, but every minute or so his eyes would flick up to seek her out again, just to see if there was anything noteworthy upon her face again. Sure, every few times or so his gaze would linger and examine, but only for an instant. They weren't alone, after all.

He wondered briefly, a handful of minutes later as he and the rest of the students rose from their benches, whether he could convince her, somehow, to be alone with him again..

* * *

 ** _Author's Note:_**

Okay, so this is the FOURTH time I've tried to upload this chapter, and I think it's actually worked, because it was in my Doc Manager, and it's allowed me to update so far, but we shall see!

I still can't see the last three reviews I've gotten, and I'm not sure if any of you happened to see the message I posted for you in my reviews myself, but for those of you who haven't, allow me to apologize once again for such a long wait. I'm not usually one to keep people waiting, but this site has not been cooperating with me! Thankfully, it seems that the reports I lodged have led to some sort of solution, as this is the farthest I've gotten with posting for about a little over a week now.

I really hope you all enjoy this chapter. There is very little interaction between Draco and Hermione, and yes, this is intentional. Hermione's pretty pissed off, people! And she's a little sick of everyone taking their crap out on her. I felt a little sorry for her, truth be told, and I thought it was time for her to spend some real, quality time by herself, getting a handle on all of her schoolwork. Believe it or not, although Hermione is the creation of the brilliant J.K. Rowling, this version of her feels completely like my own, and I care for her as deeply as I care for my version of Draco, or any other character in all the stories I've written. I know some of you may not be fond of exposition, but as I've said loads of times, this story is more than a romance.

Thank you all so much for your patience, and loyalty to my humble story.

Yours Truly,

Emma Perry


	10. Reconciliation and Deserted Corridors

Chapter Ten –

The following morning was ushered in by a storm that seemed to shake every window of Hogwarts castle with violent claps of thunder. Lightning flashed throughout the atmosphere, giving more than one paranoid soul the impression that pictures were being snapped of them every time they passed one of those quaking windows. Yet, Draco Malfoy woke with such feelings of peace as he could not remember experiencing for the last year, perhaps even more time than that. At least, not since his father's arrest, anyway.

He lay under the warmth of his blanket, surrounded by his pillows, and he had the dim impression that he had not moved even once in the night, which played a stark contrast to the hours of tossing and turning he was typically victim to. He threw that blanket from over his body, subjecting him to the biting cold of his room, and began to dress immediately – taking care as always to make sure the cuffs of his shirt were buttoned snugly at his wrists, and purposefully avoiding eye contact with both of his forearms (particularly the left).

Even as he stared at his own reflection in the mirror (while combing his hair into its usual silvery perfection) he couldn't help but notice how drastic the change was in his visage. Up until this moment he hadn't even noticed how badly he looked, but now that he was staring into a pair of brightened eyes and flushed cheeks he realized that he'd been dull and pallid for the last months on end.

"Not too bad," he said, grinning at himself amusedly. "You should get sleep more often, you handsome devil."

Once he was down in the Great Hall amongst his peers, Draco pondered over such a change as he ate his breakfast with a newly invigorated appetite. Why now, after so many sleepless months, was he able to just nod off and escape so peacefully into rest? There had been no change whatsoever, as far as his life was concerned, and as if to be sure, Draco went through a mental checklist.

The Dark Lord still around? Yes.

His parents still in mortal danger, his father still rotting in Azkaban? Yes.

Had THE JOB (he'd begun to think of his task to assassinate the Great and Mighty Dumbledore just like that, all in capital letters) been completed yet? No, it hadn't.

So what was with the change?

It occurred to him (and the thought was not at all unpleasant, as it seemed impossible the moment it made its debut into his mind) that perhaps the change had to do with Granger. There had been something in the way she'd looked at him last night, Draco was sure of it. Yes, she'd been frowning at him, so it was safe to assume that that _something_ – whatever it was – had not been very positive, but there _had_ been something, which was much more than he'd received from her in the past fortnight.

And then, quite suddenly, the peaceful ocean his thoughts had been floating over in contentment began to swirl with ripples of abject horror, as he wondered if it _was_ indeed possible that Granger's look had had something to do with the sudden calmness he'd found himself in. It was silly, it was the silliest thing he was sure he'd ever thought, but hadn't he gotten the impression, as he lay in bed last night, about to fall asleep, that now everything would be okay? There certainly had been no changes in his life, his checklist had assured him of that, besides Granger's sudden recognition of his existence. Why should that assure him that things would be okay?

 _I can't've missed her;_ he thought violently, _I can't have._

Before he could stop them his eyes roamed toward the Gryffindor table. They immediately fell upon the Prince of the Press, Potter and his Weasel sidekick, shrouded in the adoration of their fan club, and then they zipped to the left, seeking the place where he had become accustomed to finding Granger, sitting alone, sometimes with Longbottom – but most often alone.

She wasn't there, and the flare of disappointment that struck his heart was too strong to be ignored, but he stifled it anyway; these were dangerous thoughts, frightful musings. He was deathly afraid of where they lead, because he was certain that whichever path they dug could never intersect with who he was and who he was meant to become.

Yet, even as Draco actively avoided those footholds of thought, some dim part of his mind was thinking of a way to get her alone.

 _Just to return her things._

* * *

Although Hermione's newfound calmness was not quite as potent as Draco's, she still woke on Sunday morning with a slight smile on her lips. She'd had a wonderful dream, and although she couldn't remember a single detail of what that dream had involved, its essence had hung around, twisting in and out of her heart in perfect contentment. Not happiness, necessarily; there were too many negative aspects of her life to account for, but contentment seemed reasonable enough, apparently.

She attributed it all to her meeting with Dumbledore. Even without his advice and assurance, his mere presence probably would have been enough to quell the swelling anxiety that had buried its roots in her body. More than that, though, he had genuinely made her feel better. Yes, she was still without her two friends, and most people ignored her altogether, but at least she had it from a very reputable source that she had not done anything to warrant such frigid shoulders from Ron and Harry. Plus, she felt loads better about the situation with Draco Malfoy, now that she knew the Headmaster was not particularly disappointed in her for abandoning the lessons.

The things he'd brought to her attention regarding Draco had, in fact, helped erase the all-consuming anger and resentment she'd held for him since the fight he'd provoked out of her. Last night during supper she'd taken to examining him, which was not in itself odd, as she'd spent more time examining him this year than she had ever done before, but this time around had felt different.

Of course, Hermione had often wondered what it would be like to be Draco, and she had more sympathy for him than most everyone she knew, but she really hadn't thought so deeply about the subject; and as she'd looked at him last night, as he stared with a jaw set with frustration into his mutton which he never even touched, it had occurred to her that he really didn't have anybody. There was no way of knowing this beyond the shadow of a doubt; Hermione could not claim to know _anything_ about Draco Malfoy beyond the shadow of a doubt, but she was fairly certain that the only people in his life were all tied somehow to the dark covenant of Voldemort.

As she dressed herself, settling afterwards into her window seat to look out of her window at the storm which raged across the grounds of Hogwarts, she remembered vividly that at some point he had looked up and met her gaze. He'd looked almost dumbfounded to find her staring at him, although why he should be _shocked_ escaped her; she would have expected him to sneer at her, but he'd only widened his eyes a little and looked back at her with a mixture of curiosity… and something else she couldn't quite put her finger on.

Either way, the experience was something new to her. She'd felt as if he would try to share something with her if she'd have let him, but there was no opportunity for such a thing, surrounded as they were by so many bodies and interfering voices rocketing with conversation. She wondered vaguely if Dumbledore had known, or suspected, something she didn't, when he'd told her to keep an open mind if Draco ever approached her again, with an apology.

Even now, part of her scoffed at the idea of Draco Malfoy apologizing for anything, but then, he had grown different toward her during their brief stint of peace as she tried to help him with his Potions lessons.

It was with some sadness that Hermione noted how closely they'd been forced together, but that was quickly followed by anger as she remembered, for the thousandth time, that she'd been wrong about him. Any suppositions she'd held about the two of them possibly becoming less than enemies was shucked out the window by Malfoy himself, who'd done his best to make himself clear that such an idea was abhorrent to his very nature.

 _Fine then,_ she thought viciously. _I'd be a fool if I tried any more._

Briefly she considered going down to the Great Hall, joining the masses for breakfast, but she quickly decided that the best thing to do would be to avoid the place altogether; honestly, she wasn't even sure why she'd continued going to the Hall at all. The less painful route to take would have been to take her meal by the Black Lake, or up here in her room, where she wouldn't have the temptation of staring at her friends having such a normal time without her.

Her heart beat painfully in her chest as she thought of her wasted Christmas plans; she had meant to spend the holiday at the Burrow with Harry and Ron's family, but there was obviously no way that was going to happen now. She'd written her parents last week to let them know that she planned to come home once the holiday began, and only last night she'd received their reply.

 _It's probably for the best, anyhow,_ she consoled herself, as she spied a flock of birds shoot out from the dense, tall growth of the Forbidden Forest. _They seemed so happy that I'll be spending Christmas with them, and that's what matters, isn't it? If I can't be with one set of people I love, then at least I've still got my own family._

She lowered her face into the wide neck of her jumper, thinking in a small voice, _Still, though. It would've been nice._

* * *

Hours later Hermione finally emerged from her room in Gryffindor Tower, figuring that a long stint in the library would be a nice way to spend the bulk of her Sunday. She still had her Arithmancy homework to complete, and although she was caught up in Defense, it couldn't possibly hurt to do some review. She thought about studying her Potions text, but found that her current state of mind (which still lingered inexplicably upon Draco) wouldn't allow her to do so calmly, clear-sightedly.

She chose her usual table, near the stacks and the Muggle Studies material where few students (save perhaps Ernie Macmillan, who frequented every inch of the library almost as much as Hermione herself was used to) ever ventured.

She was no more than twenty minutes into finishing her Arithmancy assignment than she heard her own name called in a sheepish whisper.

Her head snapped up on its neck so fast that she felt a muscle pull painfully. It was Malfoy, of course, standing before her in all his haughty, Pureblood glory. Just the sight of him made her eyes narrow and her mouth turn down into a frown, which he noted with tentative amusement, as she was once again back to her usual self, rather than the indifferent pod that she'd been since their falling out.

 _If you can call it a falling out,_ Draco thought faintly. What was there between them to fall out from?

"Granger," he muttered again, suddenly painfully unsure of himself.

Hermione inhaled a deep breath, and released it through her nose. She tried to mask whatever remnants of resentful hurt that may still be visible upon her expression.

"Malfoy."

"What? Not Draco anymore, am I?" He said, and grinned in a way that was equally painful. He felt silly.

She simply stared up at him, solidifying his feeling of ridiculousness.

He shoved his hands into the pockets of his trousers and tried his best to look casually unbothered, but a sheen of sweat had beaded at his hairline.

A full minute of silence ensued, and then Hermione huffed with impatience.

"Was there something you wanted, Malfoy?" She asked. "Or have you come to gawk at me like a blithering idiot?"

"Calm yourself, Granger," he drawled, in his best tone of aloof arrogance. "I've only come to give you your things back."

She raised her eyebrows expectantly, and he moved quickly to open his bag and lay out the ingredients from the Draught of Peace they'd worked on together before her.

As she lay her eyes upon them, a strange feeling came over her, a feeling like

 _Nostalgia_

A distant but warm memory was overcoming her system. But that couldn't be. Those memories were not warm, and could they be considered distant at all, with only a period of little more than two weeks to separate them from the here and now?

Her gaze shifted from the ingredients to his face and back again. Without a word she began to close the many books open around her, stuffing her papers back into their respective folders and shoving everything into her bag.

"I've got no use for those." She sniffed airily. "I only bought them for the lessons. I don't need them any longer."

 _She did buy them herself then,_ he thought, a strange and unwelcome bubble of remorse rising in his throat. _I thought so._

"You may need them, who knows?" He said quickly, moving forward a few steps as he watched her prepare to leave. "It couldn't hurt to just take them."

"They're yours, now." Hermione said, snapping her bag closed and rising from her seat. "You keep them. Do whatever- throw them away. I really don't care."

And then she was leaving. Draco stood where he was, staring down at the vial of silvery, glimmering vial of powered moonstone and he felt her move past him, the empty air around him suddenly filled with her scent.

 _Lilacs,_ he thought, rather stupidly.

Quickly, he gathered the vials and the bottles and the jars into his arms and went after her, catching up with her outside the Library doors, which shut behind him with a _whooshing_ bang.

"Wait!" He called, but still the walked toward the end of the deserted corridor. "Where d'you think you're going? You can't just leave!"

She whirled around, and he recoiled instantly, nearly dropping all that he was carrying in shock. There was a dull fury upon her face which seemed to match the swirling clouds that hadn't quit all day with their storming and raging.

"Oh, I can't?" She cried, "Well do forgive me, Malfoy. Here I am, at your service. Have you got something you'd actually like to say? Or are you going to keep trying to annoy the everlasting _bullocks_ out of me?"

"And here I thought you weren't angry with me!" Draco retorted, his face growing hot. The truth was that he felt like the World's Greatest Fool, standing in front of her like this, practically begging for her attention.

"I never said I wasn't angry with you." Hermione shot back, her own cheeks flaming, more out of frustration than embarrassment. She was far from embarrassment at the moment, but she was dismayed to find that apparently her meeting with Dumbledore had _not_ erased all of her hard feelings. "In fact, I think I'm more angry with you than I've ever been with anyone! But why should that surprise you? Isn't that what you wanted? For me to realize how vile you are?"

"Why would I want that? I'm not vile!" He cried, yet again feeling like an idiot for saying something so childish. "You're the one who's been vile, constantly dodging our lessons – your _obligation,_ I might remind you – won't even look at me – I try to be _nice_ and bring you back your things, and what do you do? You practically spit on me for it. Just like a woman – " and the darkness that enveloped her expression, steadily increasing as Draco went on, made him stop short, his words trailing into little more than a whisper at the end.

She glared at him for what felt like an hour, and then she surprised him, simply sighing as if heavily fatigued and falling onto the bench closest to her, nestled in one of the window alcoves.

"I'm not a fool, Malfoy." She said quietly, her eyes never leaving his (he noted this with an unsettling sense of relief) and she crossed her legs and wound her fingers together at her knees. "So why don't you get on with whatever it was you _really_ wanted? I don't want my time wasted, mind."

Draco ran a hand through his hair and cast his gaze through the window behind her, staring into the courtyard littered with branches and leaves, debris from the trampling storm. Thunder shook said window as Hermione looked up at him, waiting with as much patience as she could muster. She noticed vaguely that he looked different, less sallow and melancholy. She wondered why that was, what had changed.

"I only wanted to return your things." He said shortly, and for the first time since he'd found her in the library, he sounded more like himself – or the version of himself that Hermione was accustomed to. Hard, unmoving.

"I've asked you once already not to waste my time." She said sternly, and when he still didn't answer she uncrossed her legs and made as if to get to her feet.

"Will you just give me a moment?" He barked, and ran his hand through his hair yet again.

Hermione sniffed indignantly, but still she settled back into her previous position. She could feel the tension in her own shoulders, the muscles wound as tightly as the string of a guitar, fit to snap.

She was fairly sure she knew what all of this was about; she wasn't blind, and had noticed during their shared classes in the Potions dungeon that Draco was even worse off than before. She'd spy him across the room, the distance between them hazy with fumes from the many cauldrons, his hair sticking up ferociously like fields of wheat blown by violent winds and a crazed sort of look in his eye as he muddled through whichever potion they were meant to be making. He was here, of course, to do just what Professor Dumbledore had predicted he would; he wanted Granger to take the stopper from their lessons and resume helping him. And as much as she wanted to walk away and leave him in his own miserable dust, she had promised Dumbledore that she would keep an open mind.

Well, to be honest, she was having a hard time keeping an open mind, but she reasoned with herself that the least she could do was hear him out, even though she suspected that the last thing he would do was genuinely apologize. She doubted sincerely that he even realized the full extent he'd taken his furious hatred to during their last and final meeting, which was enough to send her indignation and anger sweeping along her synapses in full gear.

After a silence which seemed to stretch on for miles, Draco's expression one of a theoretical physicist trying his hardest to reconcile two opposing forces, he finally blurted out a single question that left Hermione dumbfounded.

"How are you?"

She was sure that he was shooting in the dark for something – anything – to say, just from the way he'd thrown the words at her, as if tossing up an unwilling white flag.

"I'm fine." She said curtly, and he looked away again, his expression suddenly hooded. "Move to the point, Draco. My patience is waning."

"I suppose I wanted to know if you ever plan on resuming the lessons again." He mumbled, so quickly that his words ran together. But gibberish or not, Hermione understood.

"Why should I?" She asked plaintively, and she smiled inwardly at his stumped expression.

He spluttered incoherently for a few seconds before Hermione cut him off.

"Haven't thought this through, have you?" She said, and he clenched his teeth together to keep himself from flinging an insult in her general direction.

No, he hadn't thought this through at all. He hadn't even known he was going to ask her that question until he asked it, hadn't known that he would do anything more than give her back her things until he was chasing her down the corridor, practically throwing himself at her feet. Or, at least, he felt as if he were throwing himself at her feet. He wasn't fool enough to believe that he was in any way behaving as one who felt any sort of remorse, to believe that Granger thought him to be so, but he was internally writhing at the position he found himself in.

 _For Heaven's sake,_ he chided himself. _On with it, you daft monkey. You can't turn back now._

"You should continue them because you said that you would help me." He said, refusing to look at her. If he had, he would have seen her eyebrows slowly rising to her hairline as he spoke. "You told Slughorn that you would do your best to get me back on track in Potions, and I'm nowhere near any better than when we began! You should resume the lesson because it's the honorable thing to do."

Hermione practically screeched with derisive laughter.

" _Honorable thing to do?_ You've got to be joking." Now he did meet her gaze, and she saw a look of defiance blazing in his eye, as if to proclaim, _yeah, I said it._ "Do you know anything of honor yourself, Draco Malfoy? Because, I'm certain that _honorable behavior_ went flying out the window the moment you started shooting of a list of all the ways my miserable life will end."

She thought she saw him wince, but she was too embroiled in her frustration to be sure. And, frankly, she didn't much care at the moment.

"Come on, Granger. It's not as if you and I have never said such things to each other." He replied finally, trying to sound reasonable. "We _could_ just move on, if only you wouldn't insist on being so difficult all the time."

She folded her hands in her lap, her fury (although never leaving her completely), was shunted to the back row of the metaphorical cinema of her mind, as that raw, genuine hurt took its rightful place at the front of the crowd.

"Is that really all you think of me?" She asked, in a voice as small as one of the millions of rain drops currently slapping against the panes of the window behind her. Draco opened his mouth to answer, and then promptly shut it again; it appeared that Granger had no need for a response, and mostly he was glad of it. He couldn't think of a single reply, anyway. "How can you expect me to just come back the moment you whistle for me? Are my feelings of such little consequence, or do you simply not realize just how terrible you've been?"

She gave a distracted chuckle, completely empty of all semblance of humor.

"I suppose I can answer my own questions," she began, smiling dryly up at him. "I'm nothing more to you than a conveniently smart Mudblood, isn't that right? What does it matter what you've said or done? You… You can say anything, do anything, and still I'll be at your service because I'm only half a person, whereas you are whole. Pure."

He wanted to tell her she was out of her mind, that she was being much more dramatic than the situation called for, yet he quite wisely kept his mouth shut. He was picking up the very distinct sense that she was far from finished speaking, and half of him wished that he was dealing with someone far less verbose.

"Do you have any idea how _hateful_ that word – 'Mudblood' – actually is, Draco?" She asked, the expression in her eyes seeming to connote that she didn't expect him to comprehend her words at all; she seemed to be speaking to blow off steam, without any real hope of making herself heard or understood. "I mean, I know to you it's nothing more than an insult, but it's so _mean..._ Dirty blood-" she scoffed. "A Mudblood – One of dirty blood. Dirty, half-person who doesn't deserve the gift of magic, who means less than someone of purely magical parents. It's nothing more than a slur, but when you call me that, you're calling me dirty, unworthy, and less than. You know all this of course… But do you know that you were the first person to ever use that name for me? And now, even when you aren't in one of your foul moods you fling it about so thoughtlessly that I feel as if you think of it as my nickname. It hardly ever phases me anymore, and that's actually really pathetic, now that I think of it."

Draco felt his own gaze intensify as he looked down at her, aware that all the fright had all but gone from the rest of the emotions jostling around in his heart, like a mob of angry villagers… aware that she was making him think. He couldn't remember the first time he'd called her a Mudblood – he only had the vague impression that the situation had somehow involved a great mess of slugs – and he was perfectly conscious that this was because he really had used that name for her countless times over the years.

" _Does the Mudblood need to be fed?"_ he'd asked her one day – the day that he'd accidentally cursed Katie Bell, now he thought of it, the day that she'd defended him to Professor McGonagall and her blasted friends. She was right; he'd said it while he was in a perfectly docile state of mind… He would even say that he'd just meant to lightly tease her, not at all to hurt her feelings. And hadn't he then been struck with how casually she'd responded to it?

 _It means dirty blood_ , he thought to himself. _It means that she's foul._ And the "well-bred" part of him agreed rather vehemently that such a meaning was justified. Maybe it even _was_ , for the rest of the muggle-borns, but for Granger? No, he couldn't reconcile that, as dearly as he wanted to. Few people were cleaner than the girl perched primly on that bench before him.

"You're right, we both have said horrible things to each other," Hermione said quietly, no longer able to look at him. She wanted to throttle her own throat if only to keep herself from speaking, but the words burned on her tongue, clamoring for escape and release. "But the difference between us is that I've _never_ gone out of my way to hurt you. _You_ wound me for sport. You fling your venom whenever you feel bored, or grow uncomfortable. And yet you expect me to keep on helping you, despite your own ghastly efforts to thwart me in that task."

All at once she grew silent. Draco watched as she squeezed her bottom lip between her teeth, thinking that if she bit down any harder she'd make herself bleed.

He licked his own lips which had grown dry, and opened his mouth. "Granger-" he began, and at that moment the library doors opened and a pack of brutish-looking Gryffindors came swarming into the corridor.

As they passed they each turned their heads to look curiously at the Slytherin boy and the Gryffindor girl chatting intensely in this deserted area of the castle, but they said nothing, perhaps because of the way Draco glared at them each in turn.

Once they'd disappeared around the bend which would take them in the direction of the Entrance Hall, Draco turned his attention back to Granger, who had buried her face in her hands, supported by her elbows planted firmly on her knees.

"Granger," he began again, and she immediately straightened up with a deep, resigned sigh. He could see that her cheeks had taken on a flush of delicate pink, and he wondered whether she'd been embarrassed to be spotted alone with him.

"You were right about something else, as well." She smiled again, and like the last, it was devoid of humor. "My 'pathetic existence', as you so aptly put it, will probably get my parents killed. They'll be slaughtered in their beds, just as you said. I don't know when, but I know that if I can't think of a way to keep them safe, they'll be murdered purely for the spectacle. Even-" her voice broke, and although she turned her face away from his he could spy the moisture that had collected there in her eyes, and he realized with a flush of deep, mortified horror, that she was going to cry. "Even if Harry never speaks to me again, I'll always be a target. I think I've just begun to realize how pathetic this whole damned thing is – all of it. You've made me pathetic Draco, and I hate myself for feeling that way, simply because I've allowed you your success. This is what you wanted, isn't it? And all because I dared to suggest that we might be friends one day? I don't understand you, Draco Malfoy."

Once again she hid her face in her hands, and although she was as silent as a shadow, the way her shoulders shook told him all he needed to know; she might as well have been weeping in long, gasping wails.

Without a single conscious thought, Draco dropped onto the bench next to her, letting the potion ingredients fall safely to the floor, cushioned by his bag. She didn't seem to notice.

"I don't, either." He muttered, and it was the first full sentence he'd formed in the last ten minutes.

It was a silly thing to say, but in his mind, it summed up everything he seemed incapable of actually saying to her aloud.

His heart seemed to be falling into his stomach. His mind pottered uselessly in his skull, searching desperately for anything to say or do that might reverse the palpable pain seeping from the crying Granger next to him, so close to him that he could practically feel the force of it.

The shame he felt now was so bright, so clean, that if he could have seen it, he'd probably call it pure. And perhaps that was the best word for it after all, because for the first time in his life, Draco faced the monster that dwelt within his own personality, unable to deny its existence.

He couldn't help but realize that he'd done _this_ to someone. Someone who didn't at all deserve it, and he'd been doing it for years. He would have wondered how many other faceless people he'd made feel this way, but Granger seemed to be the only person worth his questions. Perhaps because she was the only one sitting next to him, but more likely it was because he wasn't quite ready to become a bleeding heart for the rest of the souls he'd tortured. He couldn't find it in himself to care about them, only her.

He reached out, hardly aware that he was doing it, and placed his hand on the shoulder nearest him. Immediately the force of her shaking subsided, but only slightly. He could still hear the harsh rattle of her breath, but he could also feel a wave of uncertainty coming from her alongside the woe. And where before he would have had to force himself to touch her at all, now he had to keep himself from pulling her closer towards him. The worst part, the part that made his subconscious kick into full hatred for himself, was that it wasn't his pure-blood ideology that stopped him from doing so; it was merely the certainty that if he tried anything more, she would pull away from him, and probably storm away.

Hermione, for her part, was trying her best to ignore his proximity, his touch, completely. Mostly she couldn't stand the feeling which stemmed from his contact – it caused the flipping sensation of free-falling in her belly – but she never considered for a moment moving away from him.

That is, until she felt his thumb moving back and forth over the material of her jumper. A stationary hand was one thing, a _moving_ hand was another altogether. A moving hand was not awkward, or uncomfortable, or unwilling, which meant that Draco himself was none of these things. That concept alone sent a flurry of questions cascading through her mind. It wasn't as if she was disgusted, or abhorred the contact. The problem was that she thought that she liked it too much.

Those questions in her mind grew louder, more unsettling as they grew bolder and deeper, and rather than confronting them – as she probably should have done – Hermione tried her utmost to focus her attention on other things, like how deeply, how thoroughly she detested him, for instance. Or wondering where exactly he got the nerve to try to be soothing. She realized, with a moment's spark of defiant resentment, that he hadn't even bothered to apologize.

 _Perhaps not,_ some faint (and highly traitorous) part of her crooned. _But doesn't this count?_

Then she registered the fact that she had stopped crying. She straightened up instantly (well, perhaps not _instantly_ , but at least as soon as the last vestiges of mortified flame – the aftershock of the whole thing - had died from her face), and Draco, who seemed to have fallen into some sort of trance of his own design, snatched his hand from her shoulder as if he'd suddenly felt something crawling under her jumper.

He could have sworn that she was blushing as she avoided his eyes (and he was aware of the strange bolt of victory that shot through him before he stifled the unwelcome feeling), looking anywhere but at him as she said, "If you happen-" she cleared her throat, the pitch of her voice ridiculously high and cracked. "If you happen to be serious about your lessons, meet me tomorrow at the usual time. But things will have to be different this time, Draco. I mean it."

Then she was gone; he'd watched her get to her feet and sweep down the corridor, disappearing around the same bend the burly Gryffindors had gone around, but it seemed to him as if she'd vanished in a puff of magician's smoke, it happened so quickly.

He sat there for a very long time, feeling dumbfounded with himself. The palm of his hand tingled almost painfully as he questioned just what the hell kind of parasite had wormed its way into his brain that morning.

" _Things will have to be different this time,"_ she'd said.

He wondered, _how could they not be?_

* * *

 _ **Author's Note:**_

This chapter is fairly shorter than the others, but only because this was the only suitable breaking point for at least another 7, 8,000 words. If I'd kept going I'd've left the whole thing off at such an awkward point that would be too hard and clunky to pick back up again. I'm really hoping that I don't experience anymore issues with publishing this chapter, but I guess I'll have to wait to see!

I hope you all enjoy this one, the next one should come up VERY shortly, as I've got half of it written already.

Yours Truly,

Emma Perry


	11. Coincidental Advantage

Chapter Eleven –

Only through sheer will power was Hermione able to maintain any level of focus during her Monday classes; the night before, sleep had once again come on remarkably easily, so fatigue was not the issue, but her thoughts, if not kept under stern control, seemed to waver from one topic to the next, dawdling between shame at how emotional she'd been the past few weeks (first crying in front of Draco after their brawl in the dungeon, then in front of Dumbledore during their impromptu meeting, and then _again_ in front of Draco, after swearing that he would never again see her tears, only yesterday), and muddled confusion about Draco's overall behavior during their last, painfully awkward encounter. Her cheeks flamed each time she thought of either.

History of Magic, her last class before lunch, trudged along at the pace of a fagged snail. The words which wound from Professor Binns' spectral mouth, seemed to be serving more as a hypnosis technique rather than an informative lecture on the discrimination of Half-bloods during the eighteenth century in Ireland; more than once her restless attention would dart tentatively at Harry and Ron as well, whenever she wasn't thinking about those other ghastly things.

Some grim, excessively melancholy message seemed to be repeating in the back of her mind. It no longer hurt to look at them – not in the same way, at least. The hurt was not so thrashing and red, not nearly as tinted by anger. The longing could no longer be called bitter, even.

The change was not for the better; because Hermione was not at all left in doubt as to why the emotions had morphed so suddenly. The pain - the missing them- were still there, of course, but those feelings were glassy and empty: Flat, aching longing, the sort of sensation of her heart vibrating meekly in her chest. What had replaced the bitterness, the anger, and the resentment were none other than solid blocks of wistfulness and something as unmistakable as resignation. She knew in her heart that she was beginning to let them go, perhaps as a defense mechanism spurred on by instincts that had decided enough was enough… In fact, by now her logical mind was probably beginning to find its body a glutton for punishment, torturing itself with all its dwelling this way.

As Professor Binns listlessly recounted the heroics of one Muggle-born, Peadar Daly, Hermione's eyes remained glued to Harry's profile. She was, of course, reserving a small portion of her attention to the professor's lecture, but mostly she was taking in the sight of her friends.

They were both angled so that Hermione could just see the sides of their faces, a couple of rows in front of where she sat. And beneath all the previously described emotions, she felt a burst of love for them, a burst of affection so strong and steady that it was almost a sound, audible and even cacophonous, demanding to be heard.

She began to sift through the countless memories she'd shared with them:

Their time together in Diagon Alley, in the waning days left before the start of their third year together at Hogwarts came first. She had no way of knowing how the two of them had enjoyed those days, but for her, they stuck in her memory as the very first time she realized just how close they had become. She'd realized then that these two boys, one gangly, one brooding, were the first friends she'd ever made. She'd realized then how lucky she was to have them.

Then there was the memory of brewing Polyjuice Potion in Moaning Myrtle's bathroom, and the endless hours they'd spent piecing together the mysteries of the Sorcerer's Stone… Then that moment (still undeniably fresh in her memory) Harry had come out of thin air outside the Triwizard Maze, bloody and hysterical, clutching Cedric Diggory's lifeless corpse and weeping something she hadn't quite been able to make out at the time. With hindsight in her arsenal, now Hermione was sure it had been something along the lines of, "Voldemort's back". That feeling of white-hot terror still washed over her every time she thought of that moment.

And where Harry was the naturally kind and empathetic aspect of their trio, Ron was the constant relief. He was the one to make you laugh when you felt as if a smile was hundreds of leagues under an ocean of possibility. Always amusing, even in his most annoying moods. Sure, he could never take anything seriously, and he had the sensitivity of a dead limb, but Ron could always, always make Hermione happy, if his mindset put him in that sort of generous place.

Hermione felt rather than knew that neither of them understood how deeply, how strongly she felt for them… how she loved them. She felt that they couldn't possibly know how she'd always experienced their pain and embarrassment and indignation right alongside them, that she would die for them in an instant.

There were very few people like those three – Harry, Ron, and Hermione. Very few who could say they'd done the things they'd done together. The three of them had solved such a great deal in such a short amount of time, literally flying by the seats of their pants through it all.

But they'd flown together, and at the moment Hermione felt like the only one alive who understood that.

These are the only words to describe the goings-on of Hermione Granger's heart. On paper they might span for pages, but still the picture painted by them will always miss something, would lack just a bit more justification or explanation, and all of it scuttled across Hermione's conveyor belt of thought in the short space of time it took Professor Binns to finish up his languid rendition of the Ode to Peadar Daly.

They were halted in their tracks by the most fleeting of glances from Ron. He'd looked at her almost sheepishly, twitching his head slightly over his shoulder, eyes poking into hers for two beats and then leaping away hurriedly. He turned his entire head resolutely away, so that she could no longer see even the side of his face. Instead she was now left to examine the back of his head, on either side of which she could spy two steadily reddening ears protruding from all that hair. Once again, there had been some thread of emotion in his eyes, the same thread that had been in them that gray afternoon in McGonagall's office, after he'd found out that Hermione had declined going to Hogsmeade in order to tutor Draco. Only this time, rather than feeling duped by whatever that thread had been, Hermione felt almost as if she knew what it was. It was as if her subconscious had pounced on that sturdy knowledge before Ron had even had the chance to look away and hide it from her, but it was gone the moment she tried to examine it further, fled into some hole of safety somewhere deep in her mind.

Still, however, whether or not Hermione could find out exactly what Ron had been feeling when he looked at her, he _had_ looked at her all the same. She felt rather similarly to how Draco felt only night before last, when he'd finally caught _her_ looking at _him (_ although, there was of course no way that Hermione could have known they shared the sentiment); it was hard to describe even to herself. But, also like Draco, Hermione had been on the precipice of letting it all go before a single look had pulled her back.

If there was a force somewhere, some kind of force – if that was even the proper word, or concept – that was keeping them all together, pulling them back from edges of bad (although perfectly logical) decisions, then Hermione would have been glad of it… even if the prospect was more than a little frightening.

* * *

As Hermione, after being released from the lazy confines of the History of Magic classroom, began making her way toward the dungeon to meet with Draco, she dropped her things about halfway through the Entrance Hall. If she'd only glanced up and to the left, she'd've noticed yet another person staring at her with no small degree of interest.

Hogwarts was, apparently, a place for meaningful glances and prolonged bouts of examination, and Cormac McLaggen fell victim to its ways. He'd stopped here as he'd chanced to see Hermione coming down the way, leaning back against the wall so that he could watch her pass. He would have helped her gather her things, but he hadn't yet thought of the perfect thing to say to her, and Cormac did not consider himself the type to quickstep his way through any sort of conversation with a pretty girl like Hermione Granger.

And then she was gone, as quiet as always, as unseen by everyone else as always. He smiled ruefully to himself, shaking his head as he propelled himself off the wall and continued on down the corridor, shoving his hands easily into his pockets.

* * *

Draco assumed his usual position in the dungeon, in the seat he always took whenever he met Granger for another of her lessons. If anyone had happened to look in on him, they would have seen him as an immovable statue; hands palm-down on the surface of the worktable and face set into an impassive mask. Yet, inside he was writhing. Inside, he was pacing to and fro with sweat beading at his hair line, pausing only to deal himself a healthy smack to the forehead.

He couldn't decide what was wrong with him. At times he felt as though he were only nervous because of the same old things he was always nervous of (the Dark Lord, his parents, etc.), and at others he felt that he was only angry at himself for letting the circumstances with Granger yesterday afternoon carry him so far away.

Again and again he pictured the way he'd sat next to her, his hand on her shoulder as she cried like a wounded animal, and each time he gritted his teeth involuntarily and expelled mighty puffs of air through flared nostrils. There was no way he _couldn't_ be angry with himself, whenever he thought of it. His hand, his touch, her tears, the way he couldn't seem to stand them. They all vaulted through his mind with the skill and grace of Olympic gold medalists, and his fury seemed to escalate.

But was it truly _fury_ that he felt?

That was The Question, the one which kept him from certainty of his emotions, because the moment he grew confident that that was what it was, it morphed right under his eye into fear. Fear of _her_. Fear that if he'd had it all to do over again, he wouldn't be able to help giving in to the same exact actions, because even now as he thought of the way she'd ripped herself open and spilled out all of her fears and thoughts, that guilt came clawing back up his throat and buried under his tongue with the metallic taste he'd grown pathetically accustomed to.

Fear, because this – this whole thing, the cloying nervousness and guilt – did not at all jive with who Draco Malfoy was. He did not feel _badly_ for Mudbloods, and he certainly did not go running amok, stroking their shoulders and cooing soft nothings into their ears. He did not feel much guilt at all, actually, and he believed himself to be of a higher standard than most. He was a Death Eater, for Heaven's sake!

There was the real kicker: Draco Malfoy was a Death Eater, and always would be one, considering the Dark Mark could never be gotten rid of. He wondered now, rather violently and hysterically, what his father would say, what his father would _do_ , if he had been able to witness what Draco had done with Granger. He wondered what would happen if Lucius could somehow find out that Draco was here, right now, in the dungeon, waiting for said Granger with more than a little anticipation brewing in his already wound stomach.

A sudden memory flashed across his mind, like a firework so bright that it illuminates the trees below it, the faces of all the lookers-on. A memory that he hadn't even known he had until this very instant:

* * *

 _Nestled in a remote area of Scotland there was a sizeable town of magical folk called Mackeney. For generations the location had been nothing but a quaint village, raised from a small settlement of witches and wizards sometime during the 16th century. However, as time wound on Mackeney became reputed more and more highly for the beauty of its surrounding landscapes: the moors, swept with purple heath and grass that sighed with the wind; the trees, tall and reaching like beautiful women poised to dance; and the remarkable river that laughed its way across it all, ending in the great lake which Mackeney looked over. As its reputation grew, more and more magical blood found their home in Mackeney. Buildings were built and parks erected. Now it was a bona fide town. Still small, still quaint, but in a way that was faintly fabulous._

 _Lucius took Draco there years ago, when Draco had been but a boy, hardly over toddler age. Young enough that he was able to forget that the whole visit had even happened._

 _They went to visit a cousin of Draco's father, who owned half the shops in the bustling tourist's sector of the town, and to get a breath of Scottish air, as Lucius had put it. Draco could remember marveling at everything, being swept off his feet by the blueness of the sky and the whiteness of the clouds, the great, sparkling lake that reflected that magnificent scene above, and all the nature that ran with buoyancy across the horizon. But most of all, he remembered a girl._

 _A girl that he had met by that lake, sitting and reading to herself about a famous warlock called Dangever. He'd gone to the lake simply to look, because when he was a child, Draco had been more disposed to wandering and getting lost in things such as nature, but he'd found her instead. He could even remember her name now, the name of a girl he literally hadn't thought about in ten years: Annella Allaway._

 _She'd had long, flowing red hair that bunched into frizzy curls around her freckled face and chubby cheeks which cushioned hazel eyes. She was a pretty girl, and that was all Draco saw about her. She was pretty, and she was nice, as he'd learned from only a few minutes of talking with her. They discussed the weather and games and Quidditch, in the quietly delighted way that only children are capable of talking in. They must have stayed by the lake for only an hour, maybe a little more, but to Draco, he felt now as if he'd stayed there with Annella all afternoon._

 _At the end, she'd picked a flower, a simple daisy with a yellow center fuzzy with pollen, and held it under his chin to see if he liked butter. He could recall laughing at her accent, rough, Scottish, and cute, and then he recalled hearing his father's voice cut through the lazy warmth that had, up until then, been surrounding them. He started toward them with such stomping fury, spouting angry half-phrases at Draco, that Annella began to cry, and she ran off without another word._

 _Lucius grabbed Draco by the wrist and took him back to their rented townhouse, dragging him along and lecturing hatefully as they went._

 _"That girl is filth, Draco! Filth!" He'd spat, Draco practically sprinting behind him to keep up. "I never want to see you associate with those people again."_

 _"What people, father?" Draco had cried, trying to wrench his arm from his father's grasp. Lucius stopped in his tracks and turned on Draco._

 _"The Allaways, Draco, as well as the rest of those putrid, Mudblood families. You have no business with them, and they have no right to business with you." Lucius roared._

 _"Annella isn't a Mudblood." Draco pouted, horrified with himself, his tears threatening to betray him. His father slapped him against the back of his head._

 _"Yes, she is." He hissed, bringing his own face only a few inches from his son's. If anyone had chanced to see the exchange, they would have been disgusted at the man's behavior. But no one ever saw Lucius during times like these, except for like-minded people who quite supported him._

 _To Lucius, honor was the center of everything, including the reason he had come to Mackeney with his family in the first place; along with its beauty and tradition, Mackeney was settled with a majority of Pure-blood families. Only a handful of houses possessed intermingled blood, the Allaways being amongst the most notorious, because they were well-to-do. Mudblood families did not thrive so well when interspersed so thinly amongst the Pure houses, and it filled the right-minded people with a dull sort of resentment and fury to see the Allaways maintain so well, think so highly of themselves, in such a place that they did not deserve. And here was Lucius' son, discovering puppy love with one of those dirty offspring._

 _"Sooner or later you will learn to tell who is Pure and who is not, but for now I will teach you. You are never to speak to anyone without my permission. You will not tarnish our name, our reputation. Do you understand? Do you?"_

* * *

"I understand." Draco had said, and with a shocking jolt Draco realized that he'd said it again, back in his current time, sitting alone in the dungeon whilst waiting for Mudblood Granger.

There's no telling for sure what would have happened had Hermione not come through the dungeon door only a moment later, feeling a little shocked to see Draco waiting for her for once, as opposed to the other way around. However, it is much more than likely that Draco would have picked himself up from his stool and fled the dungeon the moment he gathered his wits, and left Hermione to find an empty dungeon. He probably would have avoided her at all costs, thinking of Annella Allaway and thinking of his father and thinking of filthy blood.

But Hermione had come, before Draco had even fully pulled himself out of the wormhole of cold remembrance, and the faint blush that grazed her cheeks was matched by his own, although it was impossible to tell which of them were more embarrassed at that moment.

Hermione was reeling back to the way she'd felt at Draco's touch only yesterday, at the way he'd seemed to be wordlessly apologizing, the way his thumb had made little circles over the fabric of her jumper. Draco was remembering the same thing, only in a much more different, much more humiliating fashion, because it had been he who had initiated the contact.

Hermione spoke first, making sure to clear her throat so that her voice wouldn't crack the way it had yesterday.

"Hello," she said lamely, and after a moment's stupid hesitation, she shuffled closer and sat at the stool adjacent to him, just as she always did.

He inclined his head and focused on some spot just over her shoulder, feeling that to look at her would cause him to blush even deeper. Still somewhat trapped in the same track of Pure-blood thinking, he recalled now that he had never seen another Malfoy blush. Never so much as a muttering of embarrassment. He wondered now why he apparently had to be cast in a different mold.

"I brought the ingredients." He mumbled quietly, although in such a quiet environment he thought he may as well have screamed it at her.

"There's no point in starting a new Draught of Peace." Hermione said, equally quietly. "We all but finished the last, and you seemed to have the basics."

"So what'll we be doing?"

"Draught of Living Death." Hermione replied, and as she reached into her bag to pull out all her papers and her book, Draco followed suit, taking out his sixth-year Potions text, and remembering for the first time that he'd managed to steal and destroy Potter's. The memory was welcome, and it made a smile glimmer at the corner of his lips.

Hermione noticed.

"What's that look for?" She asked, curiously.

Immediately he settled his mouth back into an indifferent line, saying, "Nothing for you to concern yourself with. I was only thinking."

She pursed her lips, but otherwise said nothing, simply shrugging. "Whatever you say. Anyway, I thought this potion would come up ages ago in Slughorn's class, but it hasn't yet. I've been thinking, and I figure it would be better to perhaps practice some techniques and Potions that have got to be coming up some time soon, that way you'll be better prepared." Draco nearly rolled his eyes as she began to sink into another one of her long-winded lectures, but he held himself back, knowing that it would only anger her. And their situation was already precarious enough. "As you probably remember, the last time we met we talked a little about how you seem fine enough with the material we've covered. You know how to brew, you know the principals and the laws, and I'd even say you've got a natural knack for Potions, but the pressure has been getting to you. The only way I can think of to alleviate that is to practice anything and everything that may come up in future lessons, because you apparently aren't doing that on your own time."

Part of him was flattered by the sudden compliment Granger had so casually flung his way, and the other part was agitated by her assumption of "his problem" as she so put it. The most he could trust himself to do was nod dryly and allow her to hand him the list of directions to brew the Draught of Living Death. As she slid the paper into his hand, he noticed that hers was bandaged tightly, and before she pulled it away he took it and examined the wrap with some interest.

"What happened here?" he asked, and he hadn't even thought of what he was doing until he noticed the surprised expression take over her features. He let go quickly, and Hermione recovered herself.

She looked at the bandage herself with a silly smile.

"I dropped a cup of tea and scalded my hand last night." She said. "I'm not very good at healing spells, so I used Murtlap essence and wrapped it. It should heal soon enough."

He was inches away from telling her to unwrap it so that he could heal it himself, but he snapped his mouth shut and gave an indifferent shrug, settling for, "I would've figured you'd master healing spells by now."

"I'm still working on it. I'm not _terrible_ at them, but I've made cuts and bruises worse on myself before. I was tired, I took the easy way out." She shrugged and then set to pulling out vials and jars from her bag. Draco stared at the bandage on her hand as she placed a small chopping block on the table in front of her, setting down her little silver knife on top of it.

"Let's get started, shall we?"

Draco sighed through his nostrils and leaned forward, elbows on the table. "We shall."

The minutes passed fluidly, with Hermione only occasionally having to murmur instructions. Otherwise, she kept silent, her belly flipping at intervals each time Draco chanced to glance up at her. Internally, she was extremely incensed with herself. A constant thought kept recurring in her mind, scolding her for the way her heartbeat quickened with every look. At one point, she even found herself idly thinking of how handsome Draco really was, as she watched him slice Sopophorous beans with the little silver knife he'd borrowed from her. His hair was mussed only slightly, and his eyelids cut over an intense gaze of focus.

He looked very different now than he usually did during Slughorn's classes. Instead of wild licks of his silver-blonde hair sticking up at the front, the result of his own sweaty hand having run through it several times in frustration, it merely lost its usual disciplined sheen and fell in short waves over his eyes, and it was flattering for him. He looked completely comfortable, in his element, and it suited him much more than the style he usually had it sculpted in, and much more than the frantic afro he sported during class. But, more than that, more than the way he looked at the moment, he was simply handsome. Of course, Hermione had noticed his looks before, but she had never put any weight behind them. He was always an objective sort of handsome to her, the sort of handsome that seems to be given in a prettily wrapped package to all the snotty souls of the Earth.

She was feeling much differently now, however, as her eyes traced the contours of his face; his perfect, aquiline nose and eyes she was sure would reveal most of his secrets if he'd only let them. And as soon as she realized consciously that she was thinking these things so seriously, she wanted to drop her head into the cauldron and let the heat kill her. Or perhaps let the potion put her under its effects for the remainder of her life.

 _He shows one ounce of humanity and already you're fawning over him like Pansy Parkinson._

She frowned at herself and forced her attention to the cauldron in front of him, trying not to notice his hand on the wooden spoon which stirred its contents twice, deftly… the same hand that had tried to comfort her yesterday outside the library.

She sighed involuntarily, angry with herself beyond words and almost humiliated with her own weakness. It was a moment before she registered the fact that Malfoy had slowed his actions and was looking at her expectantly.

"What?" she asked, fighting down the creeping heat that wanted to take over her face.

"I should ask you that." He said. He tapped the spoon on the rim of the cauldron a few times, clearing away the excess moisture, and set it down next to him. "You've got that look again. The one that means trouble is coming."

"I don't know what you mean," Hermione frowned again, and Draco pointed at her with amusement.

"That look." Draco said. "Whenever you've got that look, it means you've also got something to say, and it would probably be easier for the both of us if you just get it out of the way."

"I don't plan to say anything." Hermione replied, and took to examining his potion, simply for the sake of looking elsewhere. "But you should stir that more. It should be clear."

Draco looked down, and noted resentfully that she was right; the potion was still a watery shade of lilac, and although his mind stupidly associated the sight of the color with Granger, he cleared his throat and stuck the spoon in again silently, stirring counterclockwise as deliberately as he could.

"Whatever you say, there's something on your mind." Draco said after a moment. "And if it's something that's bothering you, tell me now. I don't want you to explode."

Hermione scoffed. "I told you already, I haven't got anything to say. And as long as you don't start baiting me, I won't explode."

Draco shrugged, and left it alone. It was probably better that way. He didn't want to rock the boat, so to speak.

"You're doing rather well, you know." Hermione blurted, as though she knew she should say _something_.

The corners of his mouth perked momentarily in satisfaction, but he refrained from a reply. No sense in getting ahead of himself. He wasn't finished yet.

Hermione opened up her potions text and began leafing through it, frequenting the chapters that would undoubtedly be covered soon.

After a few minutes of silence she said, "I think for the next three lessons we'll review this recipe again, and then we can try brewing the Volubis Potion, although that one probably won't come up in Slughorn's, since Transfiguration is already covering voice-changing effects…. Maybe a Strength Potion…?"

Draco, who was only half-listening, said, "Next week I've got Quidditch on Wednesday, so we'll have to take the lesson over that weekend."

"I can't." Hermione said. "Next Saturday is the start of the holiday."

"So?"

"So… I won't be here."

Draco glanced up from his cauldron, into which he was dropping little squares of Valerian root. He paused for a moment, simply looking at her with a face rather empty of expression, and then dropped in the last three squares.

"You and Weasley then… You've made up? You'll be going with them, then?" He asked, in tones of the greatest nonchalance.

"No… What would make you think that?"

"I thought you might go with him and Potter. Don't they always spend the holiday at that sty?" His lip curled into a smile and Hermione bristled.

"It isn't a _sty,_ Draco. They may not be my friends at the moment, but I am still theirs. Don't talk about them so negatively… around me, at least." Draco stared back at her expression of defiance with one of his own for a brief moment, before sighing and shaking his head, eyebrows raised.

Hermione watched silently as he stirred his potion counterclockwise ten times. It wasn't until he began adding the powdered root of asphodel that he spoke again, and when he did his voice rang with suppressed curiosity.

"So where'll you be off to, then, if you aren't going with them?"

"Home, of course. I still have a family, last time I checked." She smiled at her joke, while thinking internally that it hadn't been all that funny. She saw an unidentifiable expression flash over Draco's visage. "Home is where I would have expected you to go, as well. Don't you always go home?"

"Not this time, Granger." He said, and the tone he used made Hermione want to press him.

"Why not?"

She noticed the way his hand flexed against the rim of his cauldron as he held it at a slight angle and stirred yet again, and she thought after a few moments of silence that he would ignore her.

Then, as she turned her attention back to the open book in front of her, he said, "My mother wrote, asking me to come home, but that's the last place I want to go."

Hermione felt something like pity flash through her heart; it was one thing to fear for your parents' lives because of all the evil, putrid outside forces rampaging throughout the world. It had to be another thing entirely to return to the hub of that force every time you set foot on your own property.

"I'm sorry," Hermione said, hardly above a whisper, and although Draco refused to meet her eyes he knew she meant it. He knew she meant well, even. And instead of the anger he instinctively felt upon any occasion of pity Granger had ever shown him, he couldn't help but feel that her pity in this case was quite welcome. To her, Draco was still relatively innocent. In her eyes, he was not touched by the ways of his family, even if he apparently bought into the mindset. Then, just as he felt that ounce of comfort, that single drop of rainwater upon dry, cracked earth, his left forearm seemed to burn at him in accusation.

"Don't be." Was all he said for a long while. Then, as if on second thought, he added, "Who knows? I might leave the castle. Gallivant across Europe, and all that."

"You could go to Paris." Hermione suggested. "I went to France one holiday. I'll never forget it."

Draco actually smiled. It was a mocking smile, but still there. "I've been to France four times already. And Russia, and Germany, and Sweden, Austria, Spain, and Hungary."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Well aren't you just the epitome of sophistication." She said flatly.

"You mean to tell me that with all your reading you've never been anywhere other than France?" He asked absentmindedly, letting the very last square of Valerian root to fall into the potion with a small _plink_ and sizzle. He meant to sound as though he was rubbing it in, but he merely sounded curious.

"I went to the States once," Hermione said. "Mum's cousin lives in Seattle there. He's some kind of biochemical engineer. Either that or he's a neurobiologist, I'm not quite sure."

"Doesn't matter which, considering I haven't got a clue what either of those things mean." Draco quipped, thinking rather meanly about what small lives Muggles must lead.

"Yes, well, why would you?" Hermione responded, her expression muting. She glanced at the clock over Slughorn's desk, and Draco craned his neck to line his vision with hers.

"Almost time for lunch." Draco said quietly. He wondered where the time had gone, and why it kept flying so much lately. Minutes seemed to slip away, hours disappeared in flashes; in his mind, Draco began to picture his life as a montage of calendar pages fluttering away from its post on a wall in hectic rapidity.

"You'll want to practice this again," Granger said, a certain weariness taking over her demeanor.

"Sod off," Draco blurted, and brandished his hand over the contents of his cauldron. "This go's as close to bloody perfect as even _you_ can expect."

"I never said it wasn't," Granger responded, eyeing the potion with the same interest she should have had earlier. Truthfully, she'd felt as distracted and useless throughout this entire lesson, as she had throughout the rest of them; it was now safe to say that Hermione was not very good at tutoring. But so far Draco had needed very little teaching or help, anyway. The Draught of Living Death _was_ a notoriously hard potion to brew, she hadn't been exaggerating by that – she could hardly brew it herself, she knew, as she had tried sometime after she memorized the recipe.

The corners of her mouth quirked down into a momentary, jealous frown. She guessed that he'd hardly payed any more attention to his own actions than she had paid to watching and critiquing them like a competent tutor should have, and yet he'd surpassed her work at least twice over… she hadn't even gotten as far as he had before her own Draught started congealing, the smell of smoking tire rubber twisting freely from the mouth of her cauldron like runners of ribbon as the concoction burnt to the bottom of it; thankfully at that point she'd yet to reach the stage of adding the root of Asphodel or, as she now suspected, she might've made herself pass out alone in a bathroom.

Still frowning, she stood up from her stool and leant slightly over Draco's cauldron for a closer look, now willing herself to examine with a hawks-eye for any and every flaw. Draco felt a breath of entertained laughter escape him as she realized what she was doing, but she ignored him; if there was a flaw, her eye wasn't trained enough to catch them out. The brew was translucent, a pale, rosy shade of pink that seemed almost phosphorous.

"…In fact, you've done rather well." It should've been a compliment, but even to Hermione her tone sounded grim. She sat back onto her stool and crossed her arms over her chest. "But you should still practice. If you never believe a thing I say, trust me when I tell you this one will come up in Slughorn's lesson. You'd be doing yourself a favor by reviewing it, getting down a technique… and it will probably go a long way with Slughorn if you can pull of a brew of this caliber."

And as she went on, Draco thought he heard one other thing in her tone, beyond all the grimness and condescension. It was hard to say, and Draco wouldn't have said it – the thought was a little humiliating in its nature – but just at this moment he was getting the feeling that Granger respected him a little, and that it was a new thing for her. Yes, he definitely got that sense: she seemed as if she'd finally acquiesced to allowing him some esteem in her mind, and she did not like that change very much. The result of this realization caused an increase of Draco's Indignation Meter, which had only a moment ago been completely empty.

Still, however, he listened enough to what she'd said that he couldn't deny the truth of it. If he could do anything to satiate the nagging scholastic beast, hadn't he better do it?

Not that he would do anything as ridiculous as admitting that to Granger aloud. He merely rolled his eyes and sighed mildly. He waved his wand over the cauldron, clearing the Draught from its belly as Granger gathered all her little bottles and jars. Along with the sound of books snapping shut, he would forever associate the musical clink of glass with Granger, as he now had so many memories of her gathering things. He fell into watching her pick up three jars at once into one hand and place them in her bag; her actions were fast and haphazard, but he knew that none of the jars would break in her bag. She was obviously someone accustomed to careful hurrying. Now he recalled dozens of times he'd noticed her moving; her brisk walking, quick packing, even the way her words tumbled from her mouth at times, one after the other. It was as if she were always afraid of being late, being cut off, or being seen at all.

He wanted to ask Granger whether or not she'd ever just slowed down, wanted to ask her what sort of things made her _want_ to; the words had hiked down to the very edge of his tongue, and then he breathed them all back in. He'd have looked foolish, asking such random things. And knowing Granger, she would find a way to be insulted by it.

Draco carried the cauldron to its stand beside their table, and then made a beeline for the door, only noticing that Granger wasn't behind him when the door of the dungeon swung shut behind him. Some part of him knew she was probably cracking open a book as he stared at the door, about to study something or read one of her Muggle books, that she would probably keep avoiding the Great Hall for as long as she could, until she got too hungry.

* * *

Tuesday of the following week brought with it yet another storm – this one even more violent than the last. The day was mild enough that the rain didn't freeze as it fell, not completely, anyway. Yet, it was cold enough that the rain fell in sleety sheets that left the cobbled pathways between areas of the castle outside look as though thousands of those little Muggle stress balls had popped open on the ground. Hermione loved the rain, and she loved the snow, but this mid-way half-breed of gelatinous, cold stuff was not at all her cup of tea, mostly because that meant her hair would be a disaster for days to come; her locks seemed to absorb moisture and store it away, so that evidence of a particularly wet day was always obvious to anyone who saw the puffed curls Hermione sported on her head.

That morning, after having tried several of her usual methods to tame the frizz, she simply sighed in fed-up disgust and threw her hair into a pony tail. And, as the weather was dense enough with wetness that the cold seemed to creep under her clothes, she wore an extra jumper under her robes.

The result was a very dumpy-looking Hermione Granger, who waddled down the steps from the girls' dormitories, as her joints always seemed to creak on bad mornings. She probably would have done better to continue the practice of avoiding the Great Hall, but she was hungry this morning, and so down she went, layered in thick clothing and sleepy bags under her eyes. However, the sleepy bags were more of a good sign than a bad one; they were the bleary sort of eyes that signaled yet another night of unbroken sleep, deep R.E.M. cycle sleep which had also left her with creases in her skin from where she'd had her face pressed against her sheets all night.

She ducked her head down as she practically sprinted down the aisle, grabbed a fist full of napkins from the nearest pile to her, and began picking up random bits of food from various plates. From across the room she was watched by Draco Malfoy, and to her left, Cormac McLaggen was studying her with a slight smile ghosting his lips. She left after less than two minutes, taking her toast and sausages with her. Cormac saw her take a right out in the Entrance Hall, probably going to find somewhere quiet to eat. He wondered vaguely why she never seemed to be with Harry Potter and that other bloke, the red-head; when Cormac had first really noticed Hermione she'd been heading back from the Quidditch pitch with the two of them, after that disastrous round of try-outs. For a while, every time he saw her she was with them, but now they looked as if they'd never so much as known about each other.

 _They must've had it out,_ he thought. _Probably dated one of them, or something._

Not that that mattered much to Cormac. He didn't care who she'd dated. He didn't care if she was dating anyone at the moment at all, although the evidence so far pointed to her being extremely single. Unless she was dating Longbottom, but, quiet or not, Cormac was sure that even she could see how out of Longbottom's league she was.

In truth Cormac McLaggen only knew three things about Hermione Granger: she was beautiful, with her long, perfect curls and hazel eyes; she was talented, as she seemed to attract the jealousy of most of the student body; and she was desirable because of these things. Cormac wanted the finer things in life; he considered himself to be a rather fine specimen of humanity himself, with all his charm, amiability, and talent. And he could honestly say that he wasn't a bad guy. He wasn't _half_ as pompous as Ernie MacMillan, and he was ten times as sincere and gentile than Draco Malfoy. Perhaps some people found him to be a little less than genuine, but people always had a reason to hate you. People, for instance, found Granger to be a pain in the arse, far too below their notice. The way Cormac figured it, it made sense that he should like Granger. It made sense that he should have her, even, if she would have him – but was there really any question in that? He'd yet to imagine that perhaps she wouldn't be interested. She _was_ a smart girl… she would have to see the same reason Cormac himself was seeing.

The only dilemma in question was how he planned to make himself known to her. He'd thought that the Slug Club would offer some benefit to that plan, but so far she'd only been to one of the parties, and during the entire thing she'd stayed glued to that pretty red-headed Weasley girl and Potter. She hardly acknowledged that he'd spoken to her, but still, thinking about it even now didn't throw him off; he'd only gotten her at a bad time, and, truth be told, something about her was a little more than intimidating.

Not that Cormac McLaggen was capable of intimidation… but still, if anyone had come close to making him nervous, it had been Granger, without a doubt.

He had a card up his sleeve now, which he hoped would make her listen to him: he intended to invite Hermione Granger to Slughorn's Christmas party, which would be in a few days. Actually, he'd known about the party for a little over the week, when Slughorn handed Cormac his invitation, along with Granger's with the instructions to pass it along to her. He'd wanted to hand it over the day he'd gotten it, but every time he was presented with the perfect opportunity, he chickened out. Thinking about it now, only moments after having seen her vanish from the Hall, he probably should have approached her when he'd seen her drop her things last week. It might've even been perfect, if he'd shown such quick chivalry. But that ship had sailed, and he would have to make due with whatever happened his way next. Or rather, whatever he was able to make happen.

Gathering up his wits, Cormac snatched up his things and ran out of the Hall and in the direction he'd seen Granger head in, only slowing his pace as he rounded a left corner and spied her profile some yards down the corridor, staring intently at the scavenged food in her lap. He hung back for a moment, unsure of what he was going to say, and after a moment he decided to wing it, putting on what some people might call his "gameface".

He walked up to her confidently, trying to look as though he were simply strolling by. He stopped in front of her.

"Oh, hello." He said, civilly. "You're Hermione Granger, aren't you?"

She glanced up at him from under her lashes, and he was sure he could see the faintest trace of color bloom in her complexion. He imagined this to be a good sign, a sign that she felt herself dazzled by the unexpected sight of him (in actuality, however, the moment Hermione set eyes upon him she experienced a vivid flashback to the moment she'd set the Confundus Charm on him to save Ron's chances of becoming Seeker).

She realized after a few beats that she'd probably do better to respond.

"I am." She said, and turned her face up with a little more resolution, shaking the strands of hair which had fallen from her ponytail out of her eyes. "Did you need something?"

Cormac smiled affably and searched in his bag for the little scroll, her invitation from Slughorn.

"Only to give you this," he held it out for her and she took it, immediately imagining it to be from Dumbledore (he had, after all, probably learnt of Hermione's decision to continue helping Draco). Before she opened it, however, he stilled her eagerness by explaining it away. "Slughorn is throwing a Christmas Party this coming Friday. He's asked me to make sure you'll be there."

"That's very kind of Professor Slughorn," Hermione said, disguising her immediate disappointment. "I think he'll understand, however, if you'll inform him for me that I won't be attending."

Cormac honestly expected no less. She _was_ a member of the Slug Club, that much he knew, from the way Slughorn fawned over her potions, her talent, her everything, but Cormac wouldn't have been able to tell her affiliation otherwise, considering he'd only seen her at the gatherings twice before. And now they were going on the sixth event. He only wanted to be the one to draw her out this once, to know a little more about her. Then he could really see who she was, what she had to offer, and what he could give. At the root of it all, his intentions really were honorable.

"I'm sorry to tell you that you'll have to go." He said, mournfully amused.

Granger frowned quizzically at him.

"We'll all be disappointed if you bow out again. Especially Slughorn, and that hardly seems fair." He meant to be teasing, but he could sense, amazingly enough, that he'd irritated her somehow.

"Slughorn should know very well by now that I do what I can for him." Hermione responded curtly. "I haven't got the time for parties, Cormac. The professor should be aware of this, and he should excuse me."

"Don't go for Slughorn, then. Go for yourself." Said McLaggen, frankly pleased to know that she was aware of his name after all. "If you've really got so much stress, then perhaps a holiday dinner might be the best thing for you, wouldn't you say?"

"I'm not saying it _wouldn't_. But I've got so much to do."

"And, what, you'll be swamped with classes for the next two weeks?" Cormac countered. He bravely sat down next to her, and she didn't feel the need to move away, as he'd kept a respectable distance from her. "You'll have all holiday to get things done, Hermione. Come out and have a bit of fun. Be around people. It couldn't hurt really, as long as you keep good company."

He watched her lips turn up into a humorless smile, and he wondered what the reason was beyond the bitterness he saw there.

"You can come with me, if you like," he said, speaking as though the thought had just occurred to him, a sudden idea. "That way you won't feel as if you're just standing there. You can talk with me, dance with me, and I can introduce you around, a little."

Hermione felt her mouth open a little in mild surprise. She felt remarkably as though he were asking her to be his date, but could she be certain? No, the only person who'd ever asked her on a date was Victor Krum, and he'd just sort of blurted it at her in blocky English, out of nowhere. Still, although this exchange felt different, Cormac had the underlying, persuasive tones of someone who wanted a "yes". She wanted to know for sure, however, so she asked him.

"What exactly are you hoping for?" she asked, levelling him with her gaze. "You can't possibly care so much about my health."

"Not that I _don't_ care about your health – because I do – but it would also be very beneficial to me, as well." Cormac said, all amiability and unaffected charm. "I'd receive the pleasure of your company. You interest me, Granger."

Incredibly enough, Hermione found herself in that moment thinking of Draco; comparing the two of them, even, in the way Cormac smiled at her and used her name… the frankness of his words and the lack of condescension. Almost as though seeking revenge upon Draco, revenge that he couldn't possibly ever feel – pointless and childish – she wanted to say yes. But more than that, she wanted to say yes because she suspected that Cormac McLaggen may just have been right. Perhaps she did need to try and snatch a few moments of fun. And Christmas parties were meant to be fun, right? Her parents always seemed to enjoy the ones at their practice, unless you counted the debacle last year with Shirtless Santa.

"And I would be your…?"

"Date, yes." He smiled again, and there was a hint of nervousness in his expression that made Hermione begin to like the whole idea.

"I can't see why I shouldn't say yes," Hermione said, beginning to smile a little herself. "All right, I'll go. Is it formal?"

Cormac grinned this time, showing teeth.

"It is. The color blue suits you, if that helps you with your choices," he said, glancing down at the thick, navy woolly jumper beneath her robe. She could tell he was joking, but really all he'd done was remind her of how dreadful she looked. He stood up, and now he was smiling down at her. "I'll leave you to your breakfast. How about six-thirty on Friday? We'll meet in the Common Room and take our time getting to the party."

Hermione nodded, her smile small but genuine as she watched him walk away. The only downside was that now she felt even more guilty about the Confundus Charm. The rest of her thoughts were rather bright, however, with only the dim thought that Cormac would be what he seemed, that she might actually be able to enjoy herself fully.

She couldn't remember the last time she'd been able to do that.

* * *

Draco had followed the Mudblood's advice, although wild horses could not have torn that confession from him; nearly every night since the lesson during which he'd completed the Draught of Living Death, he'd been able to squeeze aside enough time and energy for potions, and even then Granger had made him complete it again only yesterday, timing him as he did so. He'd even taken to dedicating some time toward the other classes he was struggling with; for now, beyond even Potions Draco was beginning to fall behind in Charms and Transfiguration. The way he saw it was that he could do nothing toward the Dark Lord's cause if he was under constant scrutiny from Professors due to his sudden decline. Up until this year Draco had been considered by all of them as an exemplary student; even Professors McGonagall and Flitwick, who had never liked him much, could never have previously accused him of being less than ideal, scholastically speaking. Now, however, they had both called him after class on more than one occasion to lecture him about his deteriorating marks. From here, he knew, it could only get worse.

It was safe to say that he was only hanging on to his spot as Seeker with the Slytherin team by the finest of hairs; the teammates who no longer respected his family (and by extension, no longer respected him) were at least still enough afraid of him as to want to keep from rocking the boat. Plus, his mother had still made the usual Malfoy contribution at the beginning of the year, and the team was expecting another gift some time next term, as always. He showed up to enough of the practice sessions to stay at the bare minimum of understanding their strategies, although he hadn't played in the last game at all. He'd also have to find a way to grease _that_ wheel just a little more, as Quidditch practice was the only excuse Draco had to get him out of Wednesday meetings with Granger, and those free periods were still wholly reserved to at least an hour in the Room of Hidden Things.

Despite the slight reprieve he had taken from the Room, however, Draco still felt a strain coming from that direction of his muddled, harebrained schedule; Crabbe and Goyle seemed less and less inclined to lend their helping hands, as they constantly questioned the progress of Draco's mission, questioned what the mission was even _for_ , and why they always had to dedicate time to something that never seemed to end. They always backed down from their inquiries quickly enough, but still, they were made, and questions had never come from them before. Not even once. No matter what Draco had ever asked them to do, Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle were always to be counted on for their dim compliance. Yet lately, they had seemed to find their voices.

The only thing that Draco seemed able to do was take care of one thing at a time. At the moment, matters of study proved to be the only area he was able to focus on at all, however, as he viewed his marks as easy enough to make up, and studying seemed almost relaxing these days. And beyond the fear of consequences for taking so much time away from THE JOB, he felt that he would kill himself if he kept going the way he was. He truly believed that he had to hunker down and target one bullet-point at a time, even if that meant risking the Dark Lord's restlessness. Otherwise, he might snap himself in two, trying to get it all done at once.

Wednesday proved itself to be as sleety and depressing as the day before, and even in the dungeons during double potions with the Gryffindors, the students could feel the rumbling thunder up ahead. However, Draco, like all the rest of them, was focused intently on Slughorn, more attentive toward the professor than he ever had before.

Before his great belly, Slughorn had arranged four thick-bottomed cauldrons, each full with a different potion. He named them off in turn, giving off a list of their effects: Polyjuice Potion, Amortentia, Veritaserum, and… something he waited to be asked about… Felix Felicis. And slowly, the whole glorious truth about that last was revealed to Draco, the explanation which Slughorn gave sounding more like a choir of heralding angels to his ears.

The very idea of _liquid luck_ suited Draco, and from the moment he understood what the golden concoction was he began to formulate plans to steal some out from under Slughorn's nose, or to brew some himself. It may take him six months, but he could do it, and it would be something he could do in the meantime.

And then the final words were spoken:

"… _this_ little sample will be the reward for whoever is able to complete a potion for me – as perfectly as possible." The professor swung his meaty arm to his left, brandishing his wand and causing the blackboard next to him to reveal a list of directions. Draco squinted his eyes to read the name of the brew, and as his vision focused he nearly shouted with happy, baffled laughter.

 _Draught of Living Death_ was scrolled in long, chalky cursive above the list of ingredients.

Immediately Draco's eyes sought Potter, sizing him up as a threat and wishing he'd been able to do more than steal his blasted Potions text. If anyone was bound to beat him out for the Felicis, it was Potter… or Granger. His gaze swept over to her and rather than glaring threateningly at her, he smiled until he caught her eye. Slowly, she began to smile in return, in a way that said, _I told you so. You're welcome._

And with the promise of hope, hope that he might be able to pull himself together and snatch this leg-up from the clouds, he probably would have thanked her if there hadn't been anyone watching.

It was extremely lucky for Hermione Granger, that she didn't realize the true reason Draco was so happy at that moment. All that she could see was relief, even a little gratitude, in his features. She could have had no way of knowing what he planned to use that little vial of luck for, and if she had, she probably would have hated herself.

"Yes, yes," Slughorn boomed, full of satisfaction from the awe of his little students. Both of his hands stroked up and down his considerable stomach absently. "One _tiny_ bottle of liquid luck, one perfect day for one of you fortunate souls."

The professor's nearly affectionate gaze lingered on Potter, whose jaw was clenched in resigned fury, and as Draco looked on he knew the professor ought to have looked at him.


	12. Finding Paths and Making Goals

Chapter Twelve –

Draco Malfoy believed wholly that he had never fought half so hard for anything in his life as he did to win that vial of Felix Felicis. There was no denying the spirit of wanting so badly to succeed, and he couldn't remember ever feeling so strongly. Not even during all those times in the Quidditch pitch with Potter, when he would become so consumed with the hunger to win – even that held no real comparison. The liquid luck was literally everything he needed right about now, with the tangled web of various objectives and goings-on he was meant to be handling. _This_ wanting was so clear and crystalized, solidified only with the conviction of knowing how close he was coming to spiraling downward, if he couldn't seize on to this fateful leg-up and make something happen; before, nothing much had mattered beyond simply besting Potter, and even then the few victories he had actually managed to squeeze hold of were nearly tasteless; experienced and done with right away.

The goal of winning the Felix Felicis, in all actuality, had nothing to do with Potter. For once – for the first time since he had met the self-righteous prick – besting Potter was simply a means to an end.

And yet, Draco still lacked perfect clarity

At some point, probably near the middle of Draco's progress through the Draught of Living Death, the minutes began to run together; they blurred past in his figurative peripheral like grains of sand blowing away in the wind, but he was past caring about that. The sensation was familiar to him lately, and besides that, Draco had kicked into a gear entirely unknown to him previously. He felt like a man possessed, squaring Valerian root and measuring Asphodel as though on auto-pilot. His movements were succinct, with the proper amount of dedication and effort leaking into the strength of the brew, causing the Draught to morph under his hands seemingly of its own volition.

He had done right to practice, and somewhere beneath the cloudy nothingness his conscious mind had glazed over with, Draco was exceptionally pleased with himself for all his prioritizing. The little vial of Felicis, which Slughorn had settled into a little hoop attached to a slender, metallic stand that stood nearly a foot from the surface of the professor's desk, loomed loudly over the heads of every student in that dungeon, but Draco especially felt as though he could hear the bottle wanting to keep its presence known; to him, the vial was more like a living person, watching over the competitors with gloating promises throughout the hour and a half it took Draco to complete his Draught.

It had taken him much longer to produce the potion this time than it had done the last time he completed it with Granger, and he was by no means the first one to declare himself finished; four other people had already had the contents of their cauldrons examined and announced inadequate by Slughorn, two of whom had given up completely, and two who had been daft enough to think that finishing first meant anything at all during a stretch such as this (one of this latter pair was a tawny-haired Gryffindor, who had produced quite an entertaining spectacle as she burst into violent tears at Slughorn's pitying expression; and once she'd gotten up and stormed from the dungeon in a flash, her steps could be heard barking down the empty corridor as the rest of the class sat in a few seconds of baffled and amused silence. Throughout it all Draco hadn't glanced up even once.

As he'd neared the final steps of the recipe, Draco finally chanced a moment to look around and absorb the moods of everyone else, feeling as though he were coming out of a stupor; besides an instinctive glance up whenever someone raised their hand and called for Slughorn's attention (a glance only long enough to identify the person the summons belonged to), Draco had begun to feel as though he were simply at another study session with Granger. He would almost have said that he'd been close to relaxed, though he could feel the adrenaline playing in his belly. He still took just as much time as he dared to fine-tune his potion along the way.

The first cauldron he sought upon his re-entrance into the atmosphere belonged to Potter, of course. The Chosen One and newly declared Potions Extraordinaire. Had Draco been only slightly less serious he might've let the glee he felt carry him away to some happy place as he took in the manic state of the little hero, sweating over his cauldron and gritting his teeth furiously. Draco nearly laughed aloud as he heard a string of muffled curses tumble from Potter's rigid jaw, so feelingly uttered that each one sounded as if it were being wrung from him. Draco couldn't have said what had happened to knock Potter so far off his pedestal, but he was immensely glad of whatever it had been; the boy looked positively mad, twitching about his little workspace in a frenzy, shoulders set in a soldier's stance of outright tension that Draco hoped might leave knots in his muscles. He wanted, in that moment, to sneer something, to rub some salt in that wound and watch Potter's head explode, as he looked rather close to the point of combustion as it was. One small push…

But Draco _was_ serious. And he was not finished yet. Although at this point, even if Draco lost the prize to some other student he still would have retained that one sense of victory, because there was no way that Draco hadn't already beaten Potter.

He quickly sank back into his former state of complete concentration, and even as his mind pedaled furiously to make his body act, he could feel a sort of euphoria coming over him. He felt almost crazy with the stuff; it set his senses on fire, and part of him suspected the strength of the feeling came from the lack of _himself_ , of his own presence, for God only knew how long. His body must have been starved of it, of that simple knowledge that any given person might take advantage of; he was _here_ , and he was doing something successfully. And, as he dropped in that last square piece of Valerian root, a satisfied smile graced his features. He folded his arms over his chest and took a step back, tilting his head from side to side with his eyes on the brew in front of him, as though examining a work of art hanging on some museum wall. Well, to him, it was a work of art; he was _that_ proud.

The only thing left was to win the prize.

Before Draco could raise his hand to call Slughorn to his workspace, the professor called time. Draco watched him intently as he replaced his pocket-watch to his robes and began his slow (and haphazard, as the professor had the liability of knocking things over as he went about) orbit around the tables, peering into cauldron after cauldron, as always skipping over Potter to save the theatrical wonderment for last.

Professor Slughorn always gave genial nods to those who had performed acceptably, and every so often a patronizingly kind frown of condolence to those who had fallen below the bar (for Longbottom, it was always a little different each time. What had started out as a string of kind condolence frowns had steadily morphed into long apathetic gazes into his cauldron, finished with a long, apathetic gaze straight into Longbottom's face before Slughorn went on with his rounds without a word). Even more rare were the happy compliments, which were reserved for Granger, Potter, and a girl Draco knew very little, though she was Slytherin, Glaida Pickerson.

Very faintly Draco registered the sound of Crabbe's voice over his shoulder.

"That looks good, I think. Hey – what if you win?"

But the only response Draco gave was to lean noticeably away, dodging Crabbe's hot breath, his eyes never leaving Slughorn as he waddled closer. By the time he stood before the workspace he shared with Crabbe, Draco could not even look at Slughorn; his gaze darted hither and thither, ears listening intently.

"Needs serious improvement, my boy. I am actually not quite sure what you were going for…" Draco heard Slughorn take a conspicuous sniff. "You must've added porcupine quills, they leave a distinct smell when brewed with wormwood…"

It took minutes of Slughorn's questions and assumptions, followed by noncommittal grunts of reply from Crabbe, for Slughorn to figure out that Crabbe had been following the directions on the board, as well as a list in his text, the page of which was turned to the instructions for Draught of Peace.

"Perhaps you ought to see about glasses."

 _Perhaps he should learn to read,_ Draco thought, his lip curling into a smirk – which quickly fell from his face as Slughorn stepped in front of him. The professor waited for Draco to make eye contact with him (at which point he smiled as though they were old chums, together again to take a plunge into a fresh world of horror), before turning his eyes down to look in the cauldron.

As Slughorn's raised eyebrows suddenly twitched together, meeting over refocused eyes, Draco set his jaw and held his head a little higher, thinking, _that's right… Go on, look for yourself._

"Well…" Slughorn's gaze slid from the potion to Draco for one moment, before returning. "Well, well... I must say…"

And then Slughorn did something Draco did not expect: he turned his head over his shoulder to look directly at Granger, beckoning her over with two fingers and a wide, immensely satisfied grin cracking upon his face.

Draco scoffed aloud at the pink flush that filled Granger's face from her chin to her hairline, bringing to his mind the image of red point-rubies magically filling one of the House hourglasses to its full capacity. He watched her rabbity eyes flick toward Potter and Weaselby, both of whom looked back at her with baffled, only slightly resentful expressions.

"Come on, Miss Granger, we haven't got all day." Slughorn urged, beckoning her still, now with his full hand.

Granger sighed and walked over to join them, her expression weary. She had no doubt that Draco had done well, and that was perhaps the biggest problem. Perhaps his success would only drive Harry and Ron further away… A smaller, more dignified part of her simply said, _let them. They'll have to grow up someday, won't they?_

"What do you think about _that_ , eh?" Slughorn beamed, putting a stop to his beckon and now waving that hand over Draco's cauldron for emphasis. "I'd say that's all the evidence for hard work one could need, wouldn't you?"

"I'd say so," Hermione murmured, nodding her head as she examined the potion. "He definitely has been working hard."

Draco, despite feeling slightly patronized, was practically swelling with self-satisfaction. He could even feel it morphing his features into a rather pompous smile, but he didn't care; he was himself again.

He hardly even noticed as Slughorn blew more smoke up Granger's bum.

"Only twice have I ever seen this potion so perfectly replicated…" he began, somewhere along the line changing the direction to Granger. "… proof of _your_ good skill and influence, I daresay Miss Granger… Mr. Malfoy will surely agree that you have been very beneficial, as we can _all_ see here…"

And as he went on Draco kept with shooting his arrogant glances straight at Granger, who merely smiled once and shook her head impatiently before returning her ever-attentive eyes back to Slughorn; the professor prattled on happily for at least a full minute.

"Now, Draco, I should think you have my little prize just within your grasp. Unless someone should exceed the bar you've set…" here he glanced back at Potter, who was now staring at the ceiling with a deathly look in his eyes. "The Felix Felicis will most certainly be yours."

He gave Draco one last, happy nod of his head and then turned away with his hands clasped behind his back. Hermione didn't look at him as she walked back to her seat, but her mouth still held the tiniest of smiles even as she settled back onto her stool.

Draco's stomach performed somersaults of impatient euphoria as he waited for the professor to make it to Potter's worktable. And as Slughorn finally beheld Potter's concoction, Draco wondered to himself why the professor should have been so very shocked at how dismally the boy had done; the past two lessons had not exactly gone in Potter's favor; he had by no means sunk to the same level as Longbottom, but he had twice now produced such duds that even Slughorn couldn't talk up. Perhaps Slughorn was hoping that Potter might turn it all around, and perhaps he would, Draco mentally assented, but today was obviously no day for such luck.

For one very slow moment Slughorn only peered down into Harry's cauldron; he bent at his ample waist for a closer look, and came back up again quickly as though he smelled something unpleasant. He blinked twice and seemed to flex his nostrils before setting his quizzical expression on Potter, whose stony face was turned down to his borrowed Potion's text.

"This was not your best shot, lad. I cannot lie to you on that front. It grieves me to say that you have not matched what was asked for at the beginning of the lesson." And the poor man truly looked as though he meant it; in fact, he looked as though his heart had been broken. As he inclined his head more toward Potter, Draco distinctly heard him whisper, "Come see me before lunch tomorrow, my boy. We'll have a chat." He began to pull away before bending back down again, apparently to say nothing more than, "and sandwiches."

Potter nodded tightly, and it was with an expression of the acutest sorrow that Slughorn retrieved the vial of Felix Felicis from its little stand and called Draco to the front of the class.

"I hope this serves as inspiration to you all, that even the worst of you may succeed with a little bit of elbow grease and the right attitude." He was back to his merry self again as he passed the vial to Draco, who took it rather gingerly, as though expecting Slughorn to snatch it back out of his reach. Instead the bottle slid easily from the professor's meaty fingers as Slughorn looked down at Draco with his first real hint of genuine pride. "Very well done, my boy. Very well done _indeed._ That potion is exceedingly tricky, and only a natural hand could have procured such a turn-out in so little time. Perhaps you and I both have underestimated your ability, hmm? Keep practicing, keep studying, and who knows where you will go?"

Draco practically flounced back to his seat, holding back the urge to grin in Potter's stupid face as he walked past him. And as he sat, letting the waves of happiness sway him to and fro, he had no inkling of how differently he would feel much later on, after all the lights had been extinguished and the hangings of his four-poster drawn closed around him. Later on, he would wonder what had been so happy about this very situation, in Slughorn's dungeon. Sure, he'd won the Felicis, but didn't he know what that _really_ meant? Would he use it for the innocent desire of a perfect day? No… no, he would be using it to help him murder someone, someone people respected, someone people looked up to with all ten degrees of reverence… Someone Draco himself respected, even, under all the bitter feelings.

He would use the Felicis to take the life from someone, rip it from them, and get away with it.

But Draco wasn't thinking anywhere near along those lines right now. Right now he simply felt like a winner, like someone who'd taken the right course and gotten paid for it.

He was still smiling as he left the dungeon, after being dismissed with his fellow classmates.

* * *

After dinner that night, Draco slipped out from the path of the Slytherins he'd led from the Great Hall and hung around the bottom of the stone staircase in the Entrance Hall, watching for Granger. She came out with a horde of Gryffindors in tow, all looking dense and full as they trudged wearily behind her. He caught her eye and inclined his head to the side, telling her to get away from them and follow him when she could. She said nothing, but something in her expression told him she would come. He turned and continued down the corridor, rounding the same corner McLaggen had found Hermione around the previous morning. He sat down at one of the stone benches and waited for her for what felt like ten minutes, at least.

Finally, he saw her come around the corner, and as he stood up and walked over to close the distance, he held his arms open with a large, shit-eating grin on his face and said, "Bask in my glory, Granger."

"Congratulations," was all she said, but the small grin was all the celebration he needed from her.

He reached inside the left pocket of his trousers and found the little vial of Felix Felicis, handing it over to her so that she could take a closer look. She lifted it from his hand (trying not to notice how her fingers brushed against his as she did so) and narrowed her eyes as she examined the perfect, molten-gold liquid within that vial. It glimmered merrily, and as she held it in her hand she was sure she could feel some sort of happy vibration coming from inside it. She smiled down at it as though it were a friendly kitten.

"I wonder if Slughorn brewed this himself," she murmured thoughtfully, as Draco watched her analyse the golden potion with immense interest. "It would have taken him ages to do it, and Harry told me he and Dumbledore had to persuade Slughorn to join the staff this year…"

"Does it really matter?" Draco asked, noting how every word he spoke seemed to drip with smugness. Granger passed the vial over to him, and he gave it one last look of fondness before pocketing it again. "As long as I've got a piece of it, I don't really care where it came from."

"What'll you use it for?" Hermione asked, walking past him to sit at the bench he'd abandoned. "I hope you aren't planning to drink it before a Quidditch match or anything like that, because that's illegal, Draco."

Already she seemed to be lecturing him, even without an answer from him.

"Relax, Granger. I doubt I'll waste anything so useful on something as mundane as organized sports. I have bigger plans for this baby." He patted his pocket, almost lovingly.

"Yeah?" She quirked her eyebrows up, curiously. "What are those bigger plans, then?"

Draco frowned thoughtfully, for a moment remembering for the first time himself what his plans were. He shook his head, as if clearing dust and debris from his skull and said, "I'll have to think of something. Beyond that, though, I didn't call you over here to discuss such niceties."

"Really," she said, her expression flat. "I wouldn't have guessed."

"I have a favor to ask of you."

"And the revelations just keep rolling in…" she smiled at her own joke and Draco rolled his eyes in irritation.

"Being funny is not your strong suit, Granger. Just give it up already." He sat down next to her with the air of a man about to strike a serious business deal. "Since you're going away on Saturday, I was thinking we could meet on Friday. I wanted to try my hand at the Strengthening potion."

"I haven't got any free blocks on Friday." Hermione said quickly. "Skip dinner then. It isn't as if you eat in the Hall anyway, if you can avoid it. Just get Neibolt to cover your duties, I'll get Pansy to cover mine." Draco said simply.

"Well… I wasn't planning on going to dinner in the Hall anyway. I've got something else to do." She kept herself from stammering, suddenly nervous, suddenly wanting the subject dropped altogether. But for the hundredth time she reminded herself that this _was_ Draco Malfoy she was sitting next to – the King of pushing unwanted subjects.

"If you're referring to the library, you can easily skip that. You'll have the entire holiday for studying." He countered, his tone one of utmost boredom. And now Hermione's defenses began sprouting.

"I've got more going on than just the library, thank you. I have actual plans." She sniffed. "You're perfectly capable of starting that potion yourself. I hardly help you, anyway. I usually just sit there and watch."

"That isn't the point." Draco snapped, his own defenses revving into action. He would never had said so to her, but there was something immensely comforting in having someone else around while he was muddling through a new brew, or trying to study some lost piece of knowledge. Perhaps it would even have been safe to say that it was comforting to have _her_ there in particular, someone who could gently guide him back to the paving if he strayed into tall grasses, but he wouldn't have admitted that even to himself.

A few prolonged moments of silence swelled between them; Hermione was inches away from excusing herself and hightailing it out of there when Draco asked, rather softly, "So what is it you'll be doing?"

"I-I've been, er, invited to the Christmas party that Slughorn's throwing. They'll be serving dinner there." And as the words left her mouth she could see the indignation flutter over Draco's expression.

"Are you serious?" He cried. "You've got to be joking… You can't be telling me _you_ actually want to go to a party thrown by _that_ swine!"

"Not particularly, no, but-"

"Then blow it off."

"I can't, Draco I've already promised-"

"Who? Slughorn? The man worships you, if you just tell him you'll be busy he'll let it go."

"No, I haven't even spoken to Professor Slughorn about it, I-"

"Even better! Then he won't even notice you're gone, you can-"

"Will you _please_ allow me to finish at least one bloody sentence?" Hermione cried, nearly tearing her hair out in frustration. It had been long enough since Draco had planted himself firmly on her bad side that she forgot just how antagonizing he could be.

He clamped his mouth shut, his nostrils flaring as he expelled air from them. In tones of preserved dignity he said, "Go on, then."

"Thank you," she said, and took a deep breath. "Someone's asked me to go with him to the party, and I've agreed. I can't back out now, that would be rude."

"You've got a… you have – a _date?"_ Hermione tried to keep herself from being offended by the absolute incredulity in his voice, and simply nodded. He muttered, "Doesn't sound as if you particularly _want_ to go, though."

Hermione chose not to answer, and after a while Draco took to examining her unreadable expression, suddenly wondering who had swooped in and stolen his Friday night from under him; his first thought was that Weasely had finally come around and confessed all of his dim-witted feelings, but he quickly banished that from thought… Something told him that Granger held no romantic inclination in return for the Weasel, and even though she might've gone with him just to fix her friendship with him and Potter, Granger didn't strike Draco as the sort to play that sort of game.

The only way he could think of to ask her safely who had invited her was to drop as much wonder and incredulity into his voice as possible.

"Who'd ask _you_ to be their date, anyway?" He said, molding his mouth into a smirk. "Was it Longbottom? Or has Looney Lovegood finally discovered her inclination toward to fairer sex?"

Granger's head whipped to the side, and she settled a hard gaze over him.

"No." she said, the word flat, and angry.

"Must be Filch, then." Draco went on, uncaring now that he was exciting that old spark of flame in her eyes. "I wouldn't put it past him to try and get a leg up in the wizarding world. Perhaps he hopes you'll teach him a few spells."

Hermione snorted in derision.

"If you really wanted to know, you might have actually tried _asking._ Insulting me won't get you any answers, Malfoy." She matched his irritated stare with a defiant one of her own.

With his jaw set, Draco eventually bit out, "Alright then. Who's asked you?"

She snorted again. "It's a little late for that, isn't it? Damage has been done."

She pulled herself up from her seat and Draco stared up at her with a mixture of humiliation and seething anger.

"Practice the Strengthening potion yourself. Don't use my absence as an excuse to forget all about it." And as she walked away she called over her shoulder, "use your break wisely, Draco. Just like me, you've got all holiday to study and catch up."

Draco waited until she'd disappeared from sight to snatch his bag up from the floor and tear his way to the Slytherin common room, all the while wondering violently why the prospect of Granger, dressed up at a party with some faceless bloke, should bother him so much.

* * *

Harry Potter stood in Horace Slughorn's office, quite alone, grinding his teeth in silent fury. The office was even more richly decorated than the dungeons Slughorn took over after Severus Snape, with all colors of embroidered tapestries from teal to maroon. Every seat was cushioned liberally in velvet and there was a handsome tea set laid out on a sprawling mahogany table to Harry's left. As promised, next to the tea were two plates piled high with sandwiches of all sorts, from cucumber to ham and cheese. Harry wondered briefly whether Slughorn actually expected both platters to be finished by the two of them, which led to his wondering precisely how long he should expect to be here.

The irony of the situation was not lost on Harry; Slughorn was the very person he'd been needing to get alone organically enough to keep from raising suspicion, and here he was, waiting for the professor on orders from the horse's mouth… but, oh the circumstances! Harry was not foolish to believe that the professor had had any positive reason for calling Harry to his office; there would be no joviality today, only a fond telling-off for his poor performance lately in Slughorn's class – the one which, up until recently, Harry had excelled in beyond his wildest dreams.

Harry's mind buzzed with anger at himself, as well as complete vexation and hopelessness. He wondered hysterically, for the hundredth time, what had happened to his beloved Potions text, the one which had once belonged to the ever-wise and helpful Half-Blood Prince… More than once the thought had occurred to him that perhaps Ron had lifted it from his bag, maybe some time when Harry wasn't paying attention late at night in the Common Room. It was plausible; Ron possessed a jealous nature that would rival that of Menelaus, and it was all too easy for Harry to picture him stealing the book away so that neither of them could have it, as long as Ron couldn't be benefited by it.

But he stole away those thoughts, simply telling himself that it didn't matter what had happened to the Prince's book now; he'd looked everywhere for it, and if someone had stolen it, there was no way to prove it. The book was gone, and as such Harry had paid dearly for it with copious percentages of his ego and ease of mind.

The minutes ticked by, and with each passing moment Harry grew more and more antsy; Slughorn was meant to be here any moment, and as Harry replayed in his mind what he knew to expect from the meeting that would follow, he literally wanted to kick himself in his own backside.

Only three days ago, on a particularly dreary Monday night, Dumbledore had taken Harry back into the Pensieve, where Harry witnessed the altered memory of Professor Slughorn himself, as he had been decades ago, before Tom Riddle became Lord Voldemort. According to Dumbledore, the true memory almost certainly revealed information given to Riddle by Slughorn which led to a chain of dark and terrible events... Events that could never be changed now, Harry knew, but Dumbledore had assured him vehemently that whatever it was that had been edited from Slughorn's memory (which, unlike all the other smooth, remarkably distinct memories Harry had traveled into, struck him more as some malfunctioning reel of film that had been mangled by some amateur A/V dork while half-asleep), was information that would be crucial to help them succeed in their mission.

 _Their_ mission, Dumbledore had said, time and time again; their mission, their goal, their mutual need and personal responsibility to see the Dark Lord vanquished, to see him finished and suffering in the way he'd made countless innocent souls over the seemingly never-ending decades that had passed since his evil soul made its final debut as the self-declared Lord of all things Dark.

Their mission.

Yet, during moments of restless thought and dangerous wonderings, Harry felt more and more that the role he'd been cast in this war was to be the means to an end. His name was what people saw about him, nothing more. Like Voldemort, Harry had been given a title, only his had been thrust upon him against his will, when he was nothing more than an infant, completely void of control of the goings-on around him; the title had changed over the years, at some point even used as a slur against him when almost every other mind in the Wizarding world considered him to be grasping for attention, now fully restored and even invigorated to The Chosen One… He also had a title, but what _was_ he, really?

What was Harry? Who was he?

He was the Man Who Followed the Plan, the one who did as he was told and hoped that whatever he was told was the right thing, and that he would one day receive the answers he sought so desperately. Sure, his faith in Dumbledore was as strong as ever… But wasn't there also a creeping sort of resentment and bitterness that pierced through him, whenever he looked into the Headmaster's cerulean eyes?

Harry pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, his glasses hanging over eyes squeezed shut in frustration; his thoughts were a jumbled mess, and no matter how hard he tried to seize some direct line of musing, he couldn't. Every topic wanted his attention, from how he could possibly manipulate a man like Slughorn now, when the man was bound to be a little less partial to him, to why Dumbledore had decided that Harry was the one who should do it anyway; then there was more of that resentment, resentment toward the fact that Dumbledore always seemed to need something, but was so unwilling to give explanation, even though the Headmaster himself had acknowledged only last year that more explanation probably could have saved the life of Harry's Godfather.

Ever since the talk he had had with Dumbledore, the very night that Sirius was killed, Harry had tried repeatedly to tell himself that Dumbledore had only made a grave mistake, an error in judgement; he tried to tell himself that he could forgive Dumbledore, and during most of his waking hours, Harry could. But sometimes, as he lay dreaming, a sudden clarity of thought would come over him and hiss all of these negative half-coherent sentences at him, as though coming from another source. Yet even unconscious as he was when these thoughts trundled up, Harry was perfectly aware that they had simply come from some shameful part of himself; that shameful part wanted Harry to be angry, to hold Dumbledore to a higher standard of humanity simply because Dumbledore himself seemed to hold himself higher, higher enough that he needn't tell anyone a thing unless it suits him.

But that wasn't really fair, was it?

Harry could no longer figure himself out, and _that_ , above all, was the most infuriating change that had folded over him over the course of the past half-year; only last year Harry had known himself as well as anyone could expect him to… He was more self-aware, probably, than your average teenager. He knew what he stood for, he knew what he abhorred, and he knew how to judge rightly; yet now he found that _resentment_ was the most common emotion to be found in his mental basket – _resentment_ , hand-in-hand with boiling anger and uncontrollable tension. He no longer knew who he was really mad at; was he really mad at Dumbledore? What about Hermione – was he _truly_ angry with her? Or did it all boil down to the frustration that was bred from the feeling of not being heard?

Perhaps it was all because of that, because no matter how hard he tried, no matter how much he'd done to earn the right of proper consideration of his ideas or theories, he was still little more than The Man Who Followed the Plan; despite the fact that, every single night, he'd examined his Maurader's Map and found that a certain blonde Slytherin was somehow disappearing from the grounds, a certain Slytherin who'd proven himself as unable to be trusted…

And yet everyone Harry trusted turned their backs the moment Harry so much as suggested that Draco Malfoy may have been up to something nefarious, and his best sodding friend was tutoring him twice weekly! She'd even had a hand in helping the prat to earn something Harry desperately needed.

And just like that, Harry fell out of questioning his own _highly_ questionable actions and behavior, turning instead straight back in the direction of resentment and anger, and he bubbled and boiled mercilessly within himself until the moment the door to Slughorn's door swung open, and the Professor pushed himself through the doorway, stomach swaying to and fro as he came to the desk and sat across from harry.

His expression was one of fatherly admonishment, friendly enough, but patronizing enough to make Harry grit his teeth imperceptibly.

"Afternoon, Harry," he said, puffing slightly out of some unknown physical exertion on his part. "Glad to see you've come on time… Go on, have a sandwich."

Harry took one simply to be polite, and it sat in his sweaty hand, quite neglected, as Harry watched and waited for Slughorn to take his own sandwich and get on with the conversation.

"This is nice, isn't it? A pleasant lunch between two companions is always a good way to spend one's lunch hour, I would say." He breathed loudly as he chewed, smiling genially. Harry nodded, his expression impassive, and Slughorn went on. "Although, I daresay we could probably have met under better circumstances…"

Harry bowed his head, and braced for impact.

"I have no doubt that you are aware of why I've asked you to come here this afternoon," Slughorn began, his brow furrowing seriously as he shifted in his cushioned seat. "I don't want to worry you any further, so allow me to assure you that you are not in any trouble; my only aim for this meeting was to get to the bottom of what has turned into a particularly unfortunate streak of subpar work on your part."

Here he shot Harry an expectant look, clearly hoping for Harry to supply a list of reasons for his poor performance. Harry, however, could think of nothing at all to say. What could he have said?

 _I'm sorry Professor, but the book I've been using to cheat in your classes has gone missing. Unfortunately, I've got no ruddy talent at all in Potions. In fact, I abhor the topic altogether._

Slughorn went on effortlessly, however. "I have a feeling that I know what sort of bug has been in your bonnet, Harry. You see, I am not ignorant as to the circumstances you must be finding yourself in… Of course the newspapers are hardly to be trusted, but I garner that there must be _some_ truth to the headlines, eh…?"

Another hopeful look to Harry, disappearing more quickly this time upon seeing the blank look upon his face.

"Besides that, Chosen One or not, you've got quite a bit on your plate, I know. A pretty girlfriend, Quidditch, all of your other classes… I imagine the pressure of it all has taken its toll. So," Slughorn punctuated his sentence by wiping his hands on his monogrammed handkerchief and reaching for another sandwich. "naturally, I am more than willing to forget all of the poor assignments you've handed in, and allow you a fresh start. But I would, however, like to make one little suggestion to you, if you will allow it."

Harry, for the first time, spoke. "Of course, sir."

Slughorn inclined his head, an indulged smile spreading across his face.

"You need to take a load off, Potter m'boy. Obviously the stress is getting to you, wouldn't you say?"

Harry nodded tightly, and as Slughorn finished his second sandwich, he took to rubbing his belly idly as he was wont to do during conversations.

"It just so happens that I have the perfect opportunity for you to do just that." Harry cringed inwardly at these words, already anticipating Slughorn's words which quickly followed. "I am sure you've already received your invitation to the holiday party I will be throwing tomorrow night. Nothing more than a little get-together, but there will be quite a few people who would love to meet you… Perhaps a few book deals are on the horizon for you, should you wish to attend."

He raised his eyebrows with a wink fit for a conspirator, to which Harry tried to return a convincing smile of understanding.

"I know that you are not one for the public sort of lifestyle, but I would consider it a personal favor if you happened to accept the invitation. It would provide the perfect opportunity for you to start off your holiday in the right fashion, and it may get your foot in Future's door." Slughorn chuckled merrily to himself. "I should think you'll enjoy yourself quite a bit, young celebrity as you are. You may bring Miss Weasely, of course, although she is invited as well. All around, it would benefit us all."

Harry quite had the feeling that he had been backed into a corner. He had the sudden impression that Slughorn had called him to this meeting merely to present his invitation in a way that could not be refused.

 _And why shouldn't he?_ Harry thought, half-amused past all his indignation. Slughorn couldn't possibly pass up the opportunity to have the Chosen One at his "little get-together", especially one to which more than a handful's worth of influential people had obviously been invited.

In the end, Harry had no other choice but to agree, and as he left the portly professor's office, his chest was swirling between relief and even more frustration; on the one hand, Slughorn had weaseled out an RSVP to the party Harry wouldn't have attended on his own account, yet on the other, that party could be Harry's last chance to retrieve the true memory Dumbledore had tasked Harry with obtaining. Not only that, but the whole meeting had been relatively painless; there had been very little chastisement, and although Harry knew things must eventually come to that, once Slughorn finally figured out that Harry's performance in Potions would never be what it had been, he had at least managed to escape that for the foreseeable future.

All in all, as Harry made his way to the Great Hall to snatch the remaining minutes of the lunch-hour with Ginny, Harry felt significantly better than he had beforehand. He'd even managed to force one clear goal into his head, a goal that, should he be able to somehow work it in his favor, would wipe out most of what worried him: he would simply have to steal the Felix Felicis from Malfoy.

Or, perhaps, convince someone else to do it for him.

* * *

 _ **Author's Note:**_

Hello again, everyone! It's been so long since my last update that I can only hope that any of you who may be angry with me will forgive me. The only reason I have to give for my absence is that my sister is very sick. I'd rather not go into the details, as they'll only serve to bring everyone down... Suffice it to say that she's been sick for a while, but it's been worse for the past few months, and it truly is the sort of thing that can consume a lot of space in one's life if they allow it.

However, nothing makes me feel better more than writing, I think the problem was simply that I forgot that one essential truth... I'm trying to find my way back again, and I thank all of you who open this update and find some enjoyment in it. I think it's okay, but the truth is, I feel a little rusty, oddly enough.

Yours Truly,

Emma Perry

P.S. I'd also like to thank you guys for one more thing: not one of you yelled at me! I've seen on many stories up here that followers may get a little upset at a writer's absence, but the only reviews I received were more than polite.


	13. Peace in Chaos

_**Before you start...**_

I only want to inform you guys that this is the longest chapter I've submitted. I seriously could not get to a favorable stopping point, so I just decided to keep on going and going and going, until I was satisfied :p

Hopefully you'll all still enjoy it for the content I've managed to cram into eleven-thousand words.

* * *

Chapter Thirteen –

Hermione thought she would be more nervous, as Thursday vanished under the shadow of Friday, the prospect of which had been hanging over her head for the past couple of days. It loomed, constantly and insistently in the back of her mind, sending out little signals and letting her know that soon it would be right in front of her, and she was in store for all the things she'd read about, and maybe even a little trip down memory road; only once had Hermione Granger ever felt the butterflies associated with the First Date phenomenon. She could look back on that night - the night of the Yule Ball - shortly before she met Viktor Krum outside the doors of the Great Hall, and still feel the jolt of excitement and wonderment that had then soaked her through, as he took her hand and led her to their first dance.

That had been the one and only time Hermione had felt truly beautiful in all her life. Never before nor since had she experienced a moment like it, and evening like that. Sure, with hindsight at her aid, she understood now that Viktor himself had very little to do with those feelings but, she was swept away by that evening.

As she sat in front of her mirror, pinning her smoothened hair back from her eyes, she thought to herself that it had been a while since she'd even written to Viktor, and resolved calmly that she would, probably soon after she retired from the Christmas party and bid goodnight to Cormac. And somehow, that trail of thought led to Hermione frowning at herself; the way she pictured tonight ending made her feel like a character from an Austen novel, after having been with the watered-down version of the man she really wanted to be with.

They were too prosaic, really, those feelings… the dull premonition that this evening would be a mere imitation of the Yule Ball, that she had already had her fairy-tale night, and she wasn't going to get another. Here she was, preparing for a date – the first one she'd been asked on in almost exactly two years, mind – and already she was planning for later, after all the fun that was to be had was over and done with. The writing of a letter, she realized, would most likely be the event that closed the night; in other words, it was unlikely that she should come gliding into her room on a cloud of foggy bliss, to collapse on her bed and immediately fade into sleep, exhausted from all that excitement.

That little frown remained on her lips as she left her room, clothed in a beautiful dress she'd purchased in Paris, which thankfully still fit her. The dress was blue, in happy coincidence with Cormac's joke about her dumpy jumper, made of a teal silk that cinched at her waist and overlaid with a sheer aqua material. It was a little tighter on her than it had been when she first bought it, but she hadn't filled it out then, anyway.

Still, however, she felt merely pretty, knowing that she lacked that certain air such a dress demanded.

The common room was empty, save for two small pockets of people; one group of second years was clustered in front of the fire, playing a lackluster game of Wizard's chess. Ron and Harry always made such a clatter whenever they played, but this lot looked positively morose, as most of the student body seemed to these days. The others, two girls in the year below Hermione, sat together in the corner near the window, changing the colors of each other's fingernails in turn.

None of them looked around as Hermione made her way past them and climbed through the portrait hole into the rather drafty corridor outside. She decided to wait for Cormac there, so she might hide in the shadows should one of her… friends? pass by her.

Somehow she hadn't thought of it before, but there was the slight possibility that Harry and Ginny might be there; she knew for certain that Ron would be there if he could, if Lavender had managed to keep her spot in the Slug Club, but Hermione was able to tell herself that most likely, Harry would avoid the whole thing if he could. As she waited for Cormac, rubbing her arms lightly to keep away the cold, she slowly decided (for the thousandth time) that she shouldn't care.

She shouldn't care about any of it, if she had any hope of having a decent time at all; yes, it felt as though this night could never be as wonderful as the Yule Ball had been, but really, the Yule Ball hadn't ended all that greatly, had it? Viktor spoke hardly thirty words of English, Ron had been a pig-headed bully, and although she'd fallen asleep almost as soon as she tucked herself between her sheets, she'd been crying as she'd changed into her nightshirt.

"Life is what you make it, Sweet Pea," her mum would say, and although it was a cliché philosophy, there was a lot of truth to it.

Yet, just as she'd given such a resolve an ounce of thought, the Fat Lady swung forward and Hermione had just time enough to slink back behind one of the wide pillars near the portrait hole before Ron and Lavender clambered out, arms linked casually.

"I don't care what you say, I like your red hair." Lavender was saying fondly.

"I look like a bloody clown, Lav. I swear, one of these days I'll change it permanently. No set of robes compliments my blasted head." Ron grumbled in that childish, somehow endearing way of his.

"Your head is dashing."

One moment Hermione was smiling lightly at their exchange, and the next she was feeling the heat rise in her cheeks as Cormac McLaggen squeezed himself out of the portrait hole and nodded his head at Ron.

"Weasley, mate, I was calling you."

"I didn't hear you, _mate_." Ron replied, though the way he'd instantly narrowed his eyes over his shoulder at the sound of Cormac's voice suggested that he had heard, and had not expected to be pursued.

"No matter. You haven't seen Granger around, have you?"

Ron frowned deeply and Hermione swore under her breath. How could Ron possibly still hate McLaggen even after he'd won Keeper over him? _Men will have their rivalries_ , her mind answered.

"No, I can't say that I have. Sorry."

"What do you want with Hermione?" Lavender asked curiously, and before Cormac could so much as open his stupidly smiling mouth, Hermione stepped from behind the pillar, trying hard not to feel ridiculous at revealing herself in such a way, like a regular phantom of the shadows. She also tried to smile warmly at Cormac, but the stretch of her lips felt almost hysterical.

"I'm right here. I was waiting for you."

Ron's mouth quite literally dropped open, and Lavender swung her gaze between all three of them, from Hermione to Cormac to Ron, and back round again. The way they looked may have been comical, under vastly different circumstances, but as it were, all Hermione could feel was a thick, sludgy tension.

… And slowly the mortification trickled in when Lavender, who seemed more dumbfounded by the moment, bore her eyes, round as saucers, into Hermione's and said, "You've got a _date_ , Hermione?"

She wanted not to want to slap Lavender, because really, the girl seemed truly caught off guard, but she still gritted her teeth as Cormac strode over to her, an easy smile plastered over his face, as though oblivious to the volcanic ash of discomfort circulating through the air.

"In face I have, Lavender. Thank you for noticing." She said curtly, and allowed Cormac to drape her arm over his, though she far from wanted to be touched. As he led her away, Hermione could feel Ron's eyes literally burning on the back of her head, but she kept herself from turning back. She wanted to wipe that accusation and anger from his face, but, more than that, she wanted to be away from the pair of them.

 _They're perfect for each other,_ she thought viciously, and it was a moment before she realized Cormac wanted her attention.

"I was commenting on the weather," he said affably enough, as he indicated his head toward the wide window they were passing by. She saw he was right; tonight was probably the first night in the past month that the sky had been so clear. Hermione could see a handful of glittering stars winking over the horizon fading from a dull, bruised purple to velvet indigo as they looked on. Hermione tried to square the view up in her head so some kind of omen of good things to come.

"Yes, it's a nice change." She sighed, trying to feel contentment.

They were silent as McLaggen led her up a few sets of stairs, the third of which began to tremble under them as it switched its position, tired of the old one.

Cormac hung his head with an amused smile, sighing as he said, "This is precisely why I suggested we leave early. I can't count how many detours I've had to take because of these barmy old stairs."

"These stairs nearly killed my friends and me during our very first year," Hermione said, and despite her still-hard feelings, she found herself grinning secretly, watching her feet as she continued mounting the stairs.

Cormac laughed. "What d'you mean nearly killed you?"

"Not many people remember this – how, I don't know, considering how gossip circulates as quickly as a virus through these walls – but a few years back the Sorcerer's Stone was kept hidden here for a while." Hermione explained. "Harry, Ron and I were headed somewhere… I forget where now, but that doesn't matter – anyway, the stairs just decided to shift, and we ended up in the third-floor corridor. Somehow we stumbled upon the room that held the entrance to the Stone's hiding place, and there was a great three-headed dog in there, standing over a trapdoor, protecting it. Needless to say we flew out of that place as quickly as we could, but I'll never forget it."

She giggled a little at the memory and looked up at Cormac, who she found had stopped listening. He was gazing around them, most likely looking for another way toward Slughorn's quarters.

He seemed to register her silence, and he looked down his shoulder at her apologetically.

"I was listening," he said, and when she tilted her head, her expression deadpanned, he chuckled. "I was, honest. Three-headed dog, Sorcerer's Stone, very exciting."

His grin was so unabashed that Hermione found herself smiling with him, slowly.

"Tell me another story then. I promise you'll have my full attention."

And he did keep his promise: for the duration of their journey to Slughorn's office, he listened as she recounted the story of saving Buckbeak and Sirius Black, only interrupting once ("that shaggy, mass-murdering bloke from the papers?" he'd asked, astonished. "Yes, but he was innocent, remember?" She'd explained patiently), and the whole thing was quite nice.

Then, as she was ushered into Slughorn's quarters with Cormac at her side, Slughorn himself, already red around the cheeks from all the hard cider, greeted them happily, like a boisterous dog whose owners have just come home. He clapped McLaggen on the back and with his other hand (meaty and so warm that Hermione could feel its heat through the fabric of her dress), he led Hermione by the small of her back to a small long table absolutely smothered in refreshments.

After congratulating Hermione on her success with Draco and shooting the breeze with Cormac about his well-connected uncle, Slughorn passed Hermione a flute of champagne with a wink, and left them to circulate about the room, easily the largest and most prominent figure amongst the folds of people. Hermione sipped her drink and watched him make his way around to each of his guests, only pausing for minutes at a time to fluff up whomever he was addressing before moving on to his next target.

"He's actually quite good at this whole business," Hermione commented dryly, and Cormac ducked his head to follow her line of sight. "What do they call it? – schmoozing. He's good at schmoozing."

"Well he has to be, doesn't he? One doesn't get as comfortable as Old Sluggy without knowing how to kneel down and kiss a few arses." Cormac returned sensibly, and Hermione snorted into her drink.

She had just time enough to think that she might perhaps enjoy herself with him, before the feeling was slowly but surely chipped at, until little else remained besides a weary sort of dislike for Cormac McLaggen.

When he'd asked her to be his date, Hermione had been able to find him courteous, and almost sweet, but he was evidently undergoing some sort of transformation right before her eyes, the more time she spent with him… It was as if he couldn't get enough of hearing himself speak. Sentence after sentence fell from his perpetually smiling mouth, one following the other as though he were doing his absolute best to sell himself, as if Hermione were a potential employer in some swanky sector of the Ministry of Magic. He seemed to want nothing more than to cram all the positive information about himself that he could into the time they had.

The only breaks in his speech (and really, the entire evening had morphed into Cormac McLaggin's Story of My Life, a One-Man Production) came when he was eating, or drinking. He downed glass after glass of champagne, switching from topic to topic; from Quidditch to his marks in Charms, Transfiguration, Runes, bloody _divination_ for Heaven's sake ("Trelawney rather loves me, I think. Always going on about my Sight, makes my mates jealous, but what can you do, eh?"), and stretching even further to cover every vacation to every obscure European hot-spot he'd ever taken with his fabulously, magically, wealthy family.

The more inebriated he became, the more "suave" he became. Soon enough, every sentence was punctuated by a low, slightly pompous chuckle, and his eyebrows grew so lively, animating his every expression, that it started to look to Hermione as though he were growing brighter, sucking up all her energy and patience until the only thing she could do was stare at him helplessly and stuff food into her mouth as her hands found it. She gagged on a bit of blood pudding at one point, after missing the plate of chocolate biscuits next to it, but Cormac was unphased.

On he went.

She had taken to examining the immaculate creases of his collar, and it was at least a solid thirty seconds before she realized that he had actually trailed off, and was looking down at her with an expression that conveyed feelings which were almost hurt. A flash of guilt heated Hermione's face.

"I'm sorry, really." She said. "I've just had a very long day."

"No, not at all…" He mumbled, and he looked distractedly to his left, where the dancers had all congregated, swirling in harmony to some slow, methodic song. "Perhaps a dance would suit you better than conversation?"

The mean part of her wanted to scoff. _A conversation typically takes more than one person speaking._ However, she threw on a smile and gave him her arm. Her mother would call her a people pleaser, Hermione knew, if she remembered to tell her about the party at all, but it didn't seem to matter. Cormac was insufferable, but he'd done nothing to warrant scorn.

"Why not?" She said, setting her half-empty glass on a bare sliver of the suffocated refreshment table.

Though she certainly had never had much opportunity for such things, Hermione was not a bad dancer. Somehow, she supposed, all those years of running around and dodging had made her at least graceful enough to revolve in a reasonable circle without stamping any of McLaggen's toes. She felt his arms snare her waist easily, almost informally, and she tried to sink into comfort with the feeling. She linked her hands behind his neck, realizing as she looked up how close his face was to hers. She could see every pore.

She turned her face away, aware that if she kept eye-contact, the awkwardness would turn her cheeks red.

"I'm glad you agreed to come out with me tonight." He tried to catch her eye as he spoke, but Hermione kept her gaze away, trying to look as though she was merely interested in all the decorations. "Truth be told, I thought you'd back out."

"I'm glad I came, too." Hermione said simply, and it wasn't necessarily a lie; what else could she have been doing? Sitting in her window-seat, reading alone? Pack for the journey home? She'd already done those things.

Of course, she could have been with Draco.

She'd already done that already as well, though, hadn't she? And besides that, what _was_ there to being with him, anyway? All she would do is sit with her legs crossed, watching him as he worked over his cauldron; she would sit there and watch him and think things that could never amount to anything, anything at all. Things that didn't make sense and things that made her angry at herself, and curse herself for a fool. It was better, on paper, to be here in this room, dancing with Cormac McLaggen, who couldn't get enough of his own credentials and who couldn't be bothered to ask her a bloody question now that he had gotten her here.

She was aware now that Cormac had somehow brought his face even closer.

"Are you really?" He asked, and she could hear the smile in his voice, although she still wouldn't look right at him. If she had, their noses might've touched. "It's good to hear you say that, because I've wanted to spend time with you like this for a while now."

"Have you?"

"I have." He nodded simply. "And now that we've gotten to know each other, I think we could be rather good together."

One hand, his left, threaded slightly lower on her back, until it rested just above the line of her hips. He tightened his arms around her – just a little, and quickly – but it sent a wave of white, cold flames through her. Not a good feeling; there was no anticipation of hidden satisfaction in this feeling. She could only tell that she didn't like it. She didn't like _him_. Not anywhere near enough to allow him such close proximity. She craned her neck away and brought her hands from their loop around his neck. The rested against his chest, almost in a gesture of warding-off, as she half-laughed as casually as she could.

He chuckled, too.

"I mean it."

"You don't say," Hermione managed, the pitch of her voice high. She looked around vaguely for an excuse to latch on to, and her eyes landed with a thud on Harry and Ginny, standing close to where she herself had been standing only a handful of minutes ago with McLaggen. She saw that he was looking right at her, seemingly just as surprised to see her there as she was to see him, probably even more so.

Hermione forgot, for a moment, that Cormac was there at all, let alone holding onto her, as Harry seemed to switch his gaze between them.

 _Him?_ The look said. _Really, Hermione?_

She rolled her eyes and shrugged listlessly in a what-can-you-do sort of way, and to her utter astonishment, Harry laughed.

No, it wasn't a laugh really. It was a sheaf of amusement, the smallest of snorts that barely creased his lips, but he might as well have been grinning.

Suddenly, Hermione was able to meet Cormac's eyes.

"I'm going to go get a drink." She said sweetly. "Would you like anything?"

McLaggen looked a little taken aback, probably at having been cut off in all his declarations, but he smiled tightly and took it like a champ, simply shaking his head and letting go of her. She left him without looking back, stopping at the refreshment table Harry and Ginny stood near. As she worked her way slowly around the table so that the large, billowing flower arrangement at the center of it would block her from Cormac's view, she heard Harry mutter something to Ginny. In a moment he was walking behind the table to stand in front of Hermione, and for the first time since that dreadful day of the cursed necklace, the two friends took each other in, eye-to-eye.

"Hey," Hermione breathed, the word escaping her like a sigh. She had thought she missed Harry before, but it was only now, as she formed her first word to him in months, that she realized how much deeper the feeling had really been. "How are you, Harry?"

He shrugged, and his lips pressed themselves into that familiar, awkward Harry-smile.

"Alright, I suppose." He toed the carpet covering the flagged floor for a moment. "And you? You're well."

"I am, yes…" Hermione chewed her lower lip, wanting desperately to launch into all the parts of conversation that come with making up with someone dear. But all she said was, "And Ginny? She's-"

"Well, yeah." Harry said airily, smiling again and nodding. "She's well. She's… Listen, Hermione…"

Hermione watched as he ran a hurried hand through his untidy hair, mussing it further.

"I know we haven't… You know, we haven't…" He lifted his hand and gestured between them, quickly, generally.

"Yes, I know." Hermione said, finishing for him. Harry never had been one for words, unless he was angry.

"And you know that I know."

"I do."

"So… I have something to ask you." Harry licked his lips and plunged on. "There's something I need that only you can get for me. I know about… that, and I know you know about… that. So I don't expect you to just sign up for any favors."

Hermione raised her eyebrows, wanting him to finish this time, to find his words. She folded her arms over her chest and listened with a slowly deepening frown.

"Well, see… The thing is," Harry seemed to struggle to find the right place to begin. He licked his lips again, and the expression he wore was one of a man who is unsure how much he could afford, or ought to divulge. He was calculating something in his head as he spoke, but Hermione, after only a few moments, understood well enough. "Dumbledore's asked me to get something for him, and now it seems that it'll be impossible for me to do that without a little help. I need some luck, Hermione. Desperately."

"Huh." Hermione inclined her head with a studying expression. "Is that so? Well. I wish you luck, Harry."

"That's not what I mean," Harry said, and lowered his voice to a half-whisper. "I need you to get that potion from Malfoy. The one Slughorn's given him."

Hermione held her gaze on him for a few moments of stony silence, appraising him, almost. Then she stepped forward and hissed, "How dare you, Harry Potter?" She tried to keep her voice low, but if they'd been alone she would have shouted at him quite openly.

Harry blinked, twice, three times. Then he frowned.

"I'm confused-" he said, and before he could finish the thought Hermione wrapped her arms around herself and leaned forward to yell at him quietly.

"After all these weeks, these months, of nothing from you! Not a single bloody look or word, nothing! And now you've got the nerve to come up, asking for services!" She honestly wanted to slap him, and she visualized doing so, the palm of her hand swatting over his cheek with humorous cracking sound. But, as of yet, she couldn't find it in herself to hit Harry. "I can't believe you."

Her tone was calmer all of a sudden, and she exhaled a great gale of breath.

Then, she chuckled.

"Always need something, don't you all?" she said, and although the irony shrouding her words was obvious, Harry could not find the root of what she meant.

"I've already said I don't expect you to say you'll do it." He mumbled, almost reproachfully, and Hermione nearly laughed again.

She looked at him, her eye full of derision.

"It seems the only way I get anyone's proper attention is when they've got a problem only I can help them with," she said, now thinking of Draco again, and how it had taken him countless flops in Potions for him to even come close to apologizing. "The funny thing is none of you ever seem to appreciate a single thing I do for you when I am in your good graces. And it's so easy for you to decide my friendship isn't worth anything, isn't it?"

"Hermione, be fair," Harry said lowly, and she was at least glad to see that he was paying attention. "You practically threw me down to defend Malfoy's honor, like his bloody knight in shining armor! You spent that whole afternoon defending Malfoy, even knowing what sort of person he is."

"Come off it, Harry, your pride was hurt," Hermione flung at him, and Harry was surprised at the frankness in her voice, and the lack of emotion that was always Hermione's trademark. He wondered with some disquiet if she had changed, since last they were friends. "You didn't like being told you were wrong, you wanted me to be on your side, like I always am, so that you could lead a cavalry charge of justice all over Malfoy."

"Well, yeah!" Harry blurted, rather stupidly. "You've always been on my side before, Hermione! You've been my friend, haven't you?"

"Yes, Harry," Hermione breathed, trying to keep her patience. "I am your friend. One of your most loyal friends, probably one of the best friends you'll ever be lucky enough to have."

She smiled a little at him then, and it was not lost on him. He noted its earnestness in the back of his mind.

"But I am also Hermione Granger." She continued calmly, and again Harry could sense that Different part of her. "I've always been on your side before, because before you've usually been right. But I've never just followed you blindly, and I never will. You were wrong about Malfoy-" Here Harry scoffed, but Hermione forced him to make eye contact again as she said, more firmly. "You were wrong about him, Harry. Putting all of the history and all of the previous evidence aside, Draco was with me that day. He was sitting right next to me, taking notes out of a Potions book. He was not in Hogsmeade, Harry.

"So, yes, I defended him." She straightened up, her tone less weighted now. "Because he didn't do what you accused him of, and I had proof. What else was I supposed to do, Harry. Did you want me to lie?"

"But the spell, you knocked me back."

"Because you assaulted him!" Hermione retorted heatedly. "I wasn't even standing up for Draco at that point Harry. By then I was trying to get you back to your senses, and probably save your hide from year-long detention with his Head of House!"

Harry's mouth opened and closed a few times before he grunted in frustration.

"I don't want to talk about this, Hermione. I don't want to hash this all out right now." He said wearily, and although Hermione wanted to thrash him for it, she held her mouth shut. "The bottom line is that he's still got something I need, badly. I need that potion, Hermione."

"For what?" Hermione countered, and resisted the urge to smirk.

Harry hesitated a moment, that calculating undercurrent still cutting through his eyes.

"I need to be able to get something from Slughorn."

"What do you need to get from him?"

"A memory." Harry forced the words out after only a moment's pause.

A brief spasm of confusion swept over Hermione's features, and she said, "A memory?" When Harry nodded she said, more quietly. "Dumbledore needs a memory from Slughorn?"

"Who said Dumbledore needed it?" Harry asked quickly, his brows meeting quickly.

"You did," Hermione said, mildly surprised. "Earlier, you said Dumbledore needed you to get something from Slughorn."

"Oh, right. Yeah." Harry nodded once and then he cleared his expression as he looked at her. "I need the potion Hermione. Will you get it for me?"

"I don't know, Harry," Hermione said, for the first time feeling uncomfortable. Whether Harry would admit it or not, they had sort of hashed out their argument. She had, at the very least, been able to back Harry into a zero-response corner, which was as far as she was ever going to get with the boys in her life, it seemed. She couldn't be mad at him anymore, and so she couldn't just use her mighty, righteous anger to back out of this. "It feels a little wrong to steal from him. He's not so bad, you know, and he really hasn't done anything lately to warrant-"

She was stopped by the sudden analytical look in Harry's eye.

"Since when does it matter what sort of person Malfoy is, Hermione?" He asked flatly, and the accusation in his words made Hermione immediately flush. "Even if he were the happiest, nicest bloke on the campus I would still need that potion."

"And stealing would still be wrong, Harry." Hermione sniffed, but it was a half-hearted defense.

Harry simply looked at her, until she began to squirm internally under his gaze.

"Fine." She snapped. "I'll do it."

She folded her arms across her chest, her expression one of defeat, and Harry found himself smiling.

 _She never did like giving in_.

He reached forward and pawed clumsily at her hair.

She beat his hand away, a smile breaking across her lips.

"Don't." she said, fighting a chuckle. "You'll mess it."

"I like it like this." Harry grinned, pawing more on her curls. "Maybe with a little more volume, though…"

He reached forward with his second hand and Hermione ducked out of the way, trying to smooth her hair down quickly. She shot him a brief children-must-play look and began walking away; completely forgetting that she was meant to be hiding from Cormac.

"Go dance with Ginny." She said, smiling genuinely for the first time in what felt like ages. It was an effortless smile, and she truly couldn't remember the last time she'd worn one like it.

Then she turned toward the crowd and came face-to-face with a concerned looking Professor Slughorn.

"Are you alright, my dear?" He asked seriously and Hermione nodded quickly. "Well, the young McLaggen lad asked me to keep an eye out for you, said he couldn't find you."

Hermione wanted to snort; it wouldn't have been that difficult to find her, she reckoned. She'd only been behind the table. Her eyes glazed over the crowd, looking for him and spying him quite on the other side of the room, examining a large, elaborate pudding with a rather serious expression.

"I was only getting myself a drink. I ran into Harry." She said, truthfully enough.

At the mention of his favorite student, Slughorn seemed to perk up.

"Ah, yes! Harry! Glad to see he came after all. Quite a few people I'd like him to meet actually… But, Miss Granger, I should think you've noticed how much he seems to struggle lately with my class!" He cast his slightly watery eyes to Hermione. "Perhaps you could lend a helping hand to the boy; you seem to have quite the gift for turning students around."

Hermione smiled to herself; she couldn't imagine what had happened to the book Harry had been so unwisely using, but she'd come to the conclusion about a week ago that Harry was no longer in possession of it. She wanted to tell Slughorn that Harry was a lost cause when it came to Potions, but that sort of thing would probably only confuse the poor fellow .

Too soon Cormac finally made his way back over to Hermione, who had taken once again to the refreshment table, hovering around it and sometimes watching people dance, already planning what she would write in her letter to Viktor Krum. He came up behind her and tried to circle his arms around her waist, and Hermione gently pulled his hands off her and turned to face him. She was appalled by him, but he hadn't necessarily been rude, so she tried to keep her patience with him. Soon enough she would be able to make her excuses and leave, and she was under no obligation to see Cormac again after that.

"I was looking for you," he said, grinning serenely.

"I was right here," Hermione replied simply, and in a moment he'd asked her to dance again.

It was another slow number, but as long as he kept his hands in their proper places, she couldn't see anything particularly harmful about it. She could try to enjoy herself inwardly, without Cormac at all. She could enjoy the music, the feel of dancing, and of having nothing at all to worry about, other than a letter to a good friend.

As she circled about the dance floor with McLaggen, Hermione thought with wonder that tonight truly hadn't been a waste, after all; she'd finally managed to break the ice with Harry. Yes, a part of her was bitter that what had spurred the change in his resolve against ever speaking to her again was the fact that he needed a favor from her, but maybe that was all right; maybe, at the end of the day, she could be glad that he needed her once again, and she could be even more glad that perhaps now he was a little more aware of her. Harry and Ron had always cared about Hermione, she knew that… The only problem was that they were never as aware of her and who she was, as they were about each other. She could be glad, because she could hope now that this could change.

Again and again Cormac tried to engage her in conversation, and at the beginning of their dance Hermione tried to keep up. Yet, after only a couple of minutes, she was forced to tell him she preferred the silence. Simply so that she could enjoy the moment, nothing more, of course.

And as the symphonic notes of the song they danced along with began to hit their peak, Hermione saw Ron glide through the far corner of the floor with his left arm held above his head, spinning Lavender in a clumsy circle (in his right hand he held a plate heaped with the remains of a clumsily handled meat-pie). She watched Lavender laugh, and Ron smiled with half his mouth, looking a touch dopey, but happy.

Hermione smiled at them over Cormac's shoulder, trying to forget how cold he had been outside the portrait hole only an hour or so ago; perhaps, now that Harry was willing to make amends, Ron would follow suit. Actually, she had no doubt that he would, considering that as far as she was aware, Ron was still only angry because Harry had been angry. Already she counted him a friend again, even if he didn't know it yet.

Out of nowhere, there came a great, cacophonous round of clanging as a table of silver plates toppled over to the left of where Ron and Lavender were dancing. Hermione saw Ron glance over his shoulder, ducking his head as though a buried mine had exploded behind him, and then she watched as that dopey half-smile spread into a surprised, almost gleeful grin.

Hermione separated herself from McLaggen and hid her mouth behind her left hand with a tiny gasp as she saw the person who'd caused the havoc, the person whom Ron was laughing at so happily.

Filch had come barreling from behind a gossamer curtain that kept the door of the room from view of the party, forcefully shoving a very disheveled and angry looking Draco Malfoy out in front of him; Draco had collided with the serving ware table and knocked it over on its side, and Hermione watched with wide eyes as the caretaker ushered Draco toward Slughorn with the occasional poke of his mighty index finger.

As soon as they reached the mass that was Slughorn (by now most of the party-goers had turned to stare at the pair marching toward him, as though they were part of some highly entertaining post-dinner skit performance), Filch began mumbling something to the professor in that bumbling, brooding sort of way that always made the caretaker seem as though he were a hand-shy hound.

Hermione's hand came from her mouth, but hovered in the air as she hadn't bothered to lower it completely; Draco seemed about to make a scathing, indignant reply, but Slughorn silenced him with an upheld hand and indicated for Filch to continue.

As Filch worked his way through his heroic tale of catching a party-crasher, Draco began to scan the crowd with a furious expression, until his eyes locked on Hermione.

"Why's he looking at you like that?" She heard Cormac say, and in a moment he'd stepped forward and returned his arm around her waist. She pulled back from him without much thought, more focused on asking Draco what the hell he thought he was doing with her nonexistent telepathic capabilities. "Is there something wrong, Hermione?"

Severus Snape appeared to come from nowhere, now apparently part of the speculation. He seemed to mediate between the caretaker and Slughorn.

"No, there's nothing wrong." Hermione answered automatically, and as his expression flattened, Draco turned back to the professor and said something that was probably at least a little offensive, before wrenching his arm from Filch's grasp and stomping his way through the crowd like an angry child.

Once he was gone, a few people clapped with expressions of knowing amusement, finally cottoning on to what they had seen. Some chuckled, and some exclaimed things like, "How embarrassing!" before returning to whatever had been occupying them before.

Once again Hermione felt Cormac's arm about her waist, and this time she all but shoved him away from her.

"I don't want to dance anymore, Cormac." She said levelly. "I think I'll be heading up to my room. I'm not feeling well, and this is late for me."

She would have waited for his response, but she knew she'd offended him. She couldn't find it in herself to care very much for someone so assumptive and arrogant, but she resolved almost subconsciously that she would make her apologies the next time she saw him, perhaps explain a little more kindly that she had not seen in him whatever he had seen in her.

Instead of being kind in the present moment, which probably would have been the better thing to do, Hermione began passing through the dancers and those who stood to watch. As she neared the door, she glanced back and Harry caught her eye. There was nothing there to see, nothing of much consequence, only the most fleeting of resentful emotions, but Hermione found that she was nodding once, as though answering some unasked question.

* * *

Hermione was so surprised that Draco could have gotten as far as he did from the party in so little time; she found him after several minutes of taking different directions, as though hoping to track him. When she did find him, it was Severus Snape who made her discovery clear to her; he nearly trampled her just as Hermione was about to turn about a corner which led into a dark corridor decorated here and there by moving portraits.

He stopped himself immediately as he realized she was just on the other side, and took a mighty step backward with an inexplicable grimace smearing under his slightly hooked nose.

"Tired of the festivities?" He said. His tone cut dryly through the atmosphere, from the sneering mouth of Snape's pallid face. To look at him up close, one would have thought the professor had been fashioned out of barely-warm wax, with the soft sheen of oil and the doughy quality of the flesh around his cheeks.

He's not always looked this bad, has he? Hermione thought, in momentary bewilderment. Then she suddenly recalled Dumbledore's worried, lined face and his grotesque hand, the constant hard set of Harry's jaw and the cold glaze that had seemed to frost over his eyes, even the way all those students had looked a short time ago, as she'd walked through the Gryffindor common room... _We all look terrible_ her mind whispered to her with an air of something close to resignation.

"I was looking for someone," She said, sounding meeker than she'd felt only seconds ago. Snape couldn't frighten her, not the way he looked now. And without fright her anger faded quickly. She could only see that tired rustling behind his eyes.

"Some people are best left alone. Perhaps your friend doesn't want to be found. Go back to your party." The professor spoke with his usual blunt authority, but chose not to bother with staying to make sure she obeyed him; he swept off without a further word, continuing down the corridor rather than toward Slughorn's quarters. Hermione frowned after him for a moment before recalling what she had gone looking for in the first place.

But she stayed where she was for a moment longer, apparently wanting nothing more than to whisper after Snape, "He isn't my friend."

Draco was more than halfway down the corridor, standing in front of some portrait Hermione could not make out yet. She doubted that he was actually examining it at all, let alone enough so that he was deaf to the sound of her heals clacking against the stone floor. Whether or not he noticed her approach, however, he gave no sign that he had. In fact, he gave hardly a sign of life at all; he could have been chiseled out of marble and still that statue would have held more animation than the Draco Malfoy in front of her.

The portrait he had his gaze chained to depicted nothing more than a glade flourishing with golden daffodils. There were three chestnut mares grazing, the grass around them alive with the wind. As Hermione looked at it, she wondered what it would feel like to be standing in that glade right about now. Probably a hell of a lot better.

"I had no idea you were so sensitive." She said, hardly above a whisper. She chuckled softly and literally felt his eyes roll.

"Come to gloat?" He asked dryly.

"Over what, exactly?" She looked at him curiously, this time able to witness the eye roll. _He rolls his eyes more than Ginny does._

"No need to play this game tonight, Granger," he said, somewhat angrily.

 _He probably blames me somehow_ , her mind groaned in exasperation. But when his eyes darted to hers for that fleeting moment, it was embarrassment she saw in them – copious amounts of embarrassment.

She broke into a wide smile.

"Were you really trying to gatecrash, then?" She asked, actually trying to mask some of her amusement. "After making fun of me for going with Cormac?"

"Before you let your triumph carry you away, I was not _crashing_ anything." Draco snapped, disliking the barking quality the surrounding silence added to his voice.

"You can tell me, really. I only wonder why you didn't just say you wanted to go." She teased, immensely pleased to see him squirm. She could sort of see why he enjoyed making others feel so uncomfortable… it was fun to watch his ears go red. "I see no reason why Slughorn would have objected if I brought you. If I'd only known how _desperate_ you were."

She was still smiling, but he'd grown suddenly serious. His eyes searched over her face for a moment, as though trying to dig out what she meant.

Then, he breathed in laughter and said, "Right. The studious little angel has been drinking, I see."

"I most certainly have, but I am perfectly within my wits. As always." Hermione declared. "So, why is it you've come to brood in the dark, Draco, if you're not feeling left out?"

"Don't tell me you're a mean drunk, Granger." He drawled, and she could tell that he'd fortified his figurative walls.

It was her turn to roll her eyes. "Don't tell me you really _are_ sensitive, Malfoy."

She saw his eyes flash, but all it served was to make her indignant. Still, however, she relented.

"I'm only kidding with you," she sighed. "But I'm still wondering. If you weren't trying to get in, why did Filch take you to Slughorn?"

"It doesn't matter, and besides, it hasn't got anything to do with you." He said, finally. "Suffice it to say Filch is a git."

"Fair enough," she said easily, and turned to face him. He braced as though he expected her to backhand him, but she only continued. "I really didn't come here to laugh at you, Draco."

"Then why did you come?" Draco countered, almost immediately, and then looked as though he hadn't meant to say anything at all.

"At first I didn't have much of a reason," She said, pausing for a moment. "But now that I think on it, I feel the need to tell you not to do anything stupid."

Outwardly Draco blew one of his patented scoffs straight into her face, but his internal temperature had quite suddenly plummeted. He wondered briefly, and with some panic, whether or not Granger knew more than she'd ever let on… One of the harsh realities he'd been forced to come to terms with was that the Mudblood was _smart_ … beyond all her books and punctually handed-in assignments. She was observant, and she knew how to mask her true thoughts.

As these thoughts darted through his head in the space of a second, Draco realized that he was beginning to see a completely different side of her.

He didn't miss a beat, though. After his mocking laugh he quickly followed with, "And what would make you want to say that?"

"Well, I don't really know to be honest." She said quietly.

Perhaps it was being in the dark that gave this unlikely pair so many enigmatic thoughts, but as Hermione studied him, she couldn't help the overwhelming feeling of suspicion that burgeoned through her brain. On the surface, there was nothing to account for the strength of it, yet the question of how he had spent his evening seemed very fundamental. If he had truly only been passing by the potion master's quarters, what had he been doing that led him there? And even beyond that, Hermione found herself wondering what Draco Malfoy did with his time in general.

She wanted at once to know all of his ridiculous secrets, wanted to know why he hadn't even kept one single, true friend in all the years she'd known him, and why he looked so ghastly all the time lately. All the answers had to be connected to the war that plagued them all, she knew, but she was also certain that there were deeper chasms to explore.

"Was that all then?" He said curtly, his eyebrows affected into an aloof expression. "Can I go now that I've had my warning?"

"Are you still planning to stay at the castle over the holiday?" She asked, abruptly… but she wanted to root out what she could about him.

He looked confused for a moment or two before finally saying, "Dunno. Probably not, why?"

"I remember you told me your mother wrote and asked you to make the trip." She replied. "Is that why you changed your mind?"

Despite that feeling of caution, newly sprouted and still growing stronger, Draco answered her.

"Partly."

"And the rest of the reason?"

"I mean, there's not much to hang around here for," he gestured around him generally, smirking.

"You could study. You'd have the whole library to yourself." Here she laughed softly. He'd noticed more than once that when she laughed while someone looked at her, she always pressed her lips together, keeping them closed and fighting back at least some part of her true amusement. Draco figured she did so because she'd once had beaver's teeth, and she was probably still shy about it.

"And what, you'll be there to slap me on the wrist when I procrastinate?" He realized once he finished speaking that he was smiling himself. The expression was barely there, but it didn't melt from his face as quickly as he would have expected it to.

The only downside was that Granger definitely noticed as well, and there was something ridiculously embarrassing about that; she grew quiet, and adopted a curious gleam in her eye. Apparently, however, she decided against saying anything about it.

Instead she said, rather quickly, "I think you should stay here at the castle, Draco." She frowned with an emotion dangerously close to concern. "I won't pretend to know anything about your life, but I don't think you want to go home. There has to be a reason for that, hasn't there?"

He looked down at his feet once more, agitated at the way she seemed to be pleading with him. He wondered where she picked up such dramatic behavior. Still, she pressed on a little further.

"If your mother misses you, she obviously loves you, so she'll understand. In fact, she probably knows herself how dangerous it could be for you to go back."

"You act as if my front gate is the entrance to the underworld." Draco remarked, affecting a derisive air.

"Like I said, there's got to be a reason you aren't so inclined to go back." He rolled his eyes for the third time in the space of their conversation, but she kept going. "I'll bet you've got at least a dozen people who would tell you your duty is to go back, but someone highly reputed for their good sense is advising you to follow your original instinct."

He looked up to her face again, and saw that same concern just etched into every feature. He searched that curious gleam in her eye for a long moment, trying to pick out anything that might have been hidden behind it. He wondered how much she knew, or how much she had ever guessed, about the Malfoy's involvement in the war.

 _She couldn't possibly guess all of it_ , he reasoned. But still, common sense could have told her a great deal. Perhaps that was all it was, just common sense. If it were, there wasn't much harm in it, was there?

Eventually he sighed in defeat.

"I have to go home," he said, and before she could ask why – which was inevitable, really, with a girl like Granger – he supplied, "She hasn't got anyone else."

And that wasn't a direct lie; of course, Narcissa Malfoy was more surrounded by familiars than she'd ever been in her life, but Draco knew his mother was ultimately friendless.

"I suppose I can see that logic," Hermione allowed, and her next words were rife with bitterness. "One might say I'd do better to stay put as well. But it's hard to stay away from those we love, isn't it? Which is actually a little selfish, if you really think about it; we all just want to snatch what time we can."

Suddenly he was frowning at her, and he brought his hand to his face to cover his eyes.

"Blimey, Granger," He popped one weary eye open to regard her solemnly. "You go bloody dark when you've been drinking, don't you? All this serious talk, what's the point of it? It can hardly change anything."

For half a minute she they only looked at each other; she wanted to say that reflection was important, that it was even a little vital, but it was obvious to her by now that he wasn't fond of the direction their conversation had taken. She rubbed her arms lightly. Apparently that was a new nervous tick for her.

 _One among many_ she thought somberly.

Draco watched as tiny white bumps rose up along the skin of her arms from her own touch, and somehow it was only now that he realized what she was wearing. He wanted to take a step back to really get a good look at her, but he kept himself in place and instead emitted a derisive chuckle.

"Pulled out all the stops for that prat, haven't you?" He asked, glancing down at her dress pointedly.

She tightened her arms over her chest immediately.

"I doubt anyone in the entire school has ever seen you wear much more than a knobby jumper… Who could have guessed that all it took was someone daft enough to take you out for a night for you to make yourself presentable."

"Well that's a lovely thing to say to someone – probably the only someone, mind – who's trying to show you a little kindness." She nearly cried it out, or perhaps she'd only felt as if she'd been yelling; it occurred to her now how quietly she and Draco had been speaking.

"I never asked you for any kindness." He pointed out, rather smugly. He could sense Granger's internal squirming. "You're acting on your own, silly freewill, Granger."

"The _point_ of being nice," she ground out, "is that one shouldn't need to file a request for it. Though I wouldn't expect you to understand such a thing, Malfoy."

"Then your point is meaningless, isn't it?" Draco responded, shrugging her off. "The best thing for you to do is skip on back to McLaggen and salvage what you can of your night. You'll get nothing from me for your valiant efforts."

"Can't argue there," she muttered darkly, and although she was now avoiding his stare altogether, she seemed far from wanting to leave. A mean grin of understanding flickered over Draco's face.

"He really _is_ a prat then, isn't he?" Draco prodded gleefully. "Let me guess, a little too handsy? Or is it that his wit falls too short for the little erudite Gryffindor?"

"Actually, no." Granger answered in complete seriousness, and there was even a hint of begrudged amusement hidden in her eyes, still kept resolutely away from his own. "He's handsy, yes, but that in and of itself doesn't bother me… He's got wit enough, certainly, so it isn't that either. He's also handsome, and accomplished, and he hasn't got any malicious need to torment, as you seem to."

"Run along then," he sneered. "Your prince awaits you."

The intense irritation was perfectly plain on his face, but she was thankfully staring down at her folded arms.

"Cormac has nothing to offer me," she said simply. She shrugged, and then her eyes flickered up to meet his.

"You literally just said-"

"I _know_ what I said, Draco." She sighed. "On paper, McLaggen would probably be called my perfect match by anyone who cared to look into it… But he's much too aware of that, if that makes any sense. Plus, he talks too much."

Ah, it's clear now," Draco nodded knowingly. "You probably prefer for your men to just gaze at you rapturously as you prattle on. You don't need a boyfriend, Granger. You need a sounding board."

A sound of disgust flew from the back of her throat and for a moment she looked as though she wanted to kick him. He recalled with sudden clarity that afternoon after Potions, when he'd practically accosted her outside of the library… she'd kicked him then, hard, and stomped on his foot with the tough heel of her right penny loafer.

A bubble of laughter escaped his throat, so quickly there was no stopping it and her eyes instantly narrowed into slits.

"Oh, having a laugh now, are we?" She cried, and then she was wagging her finger at him like a nagging grandmother. "I don't know why I bother with you, Draco Malfoy. You've got a whole _sack_ full of issues, d'you know that?"

"Then _leave_ , like I keep bloody telling you!" Draco countered, stepping forward suddenly, simply to stop her from driving him backward with that annoying way she had. "Or maybe you're not as smart as you think you are! Have you ever considered that, Granger, with that mighty brain of yours?"

He was inches away from rapping on the top of her skull for emphasis, if he could have known for a fact that she wouldn't have slapped him. In a way, he really did want her to leave; having her near always wound up driving him insane, the tear-your-sodding-hair-from-its-roots kind of insane.

She shut her mouth (which had been ready to fire another insult, he was sure) rather abruptly, and developed a quizzical mien.

It would be hard to describe the way Draco's rhetorical question had made her feel, but it was fitting to say that she felt very much like a stupid little moth, drawn to the bright lights of an old, rusted lantern.

And Draco must've realized the amount of contemplation Hermione was putting into his words, because he immediately turned her own method of forestalling against her by asking, "Have you changed your mind, then? About staying at Hogwarts, I mean."

Hermione must have been mad, to keep on with standing there and talking with someone so capricious… He even seemed to bring out her own caprices, leaving her with the impression that they left the metaphorical village completely destroyed after each conversation with their storms of words. It was chaos, the way they interacted, neither one sure what would set the other off, both of them even occasionally doing everything they could to entice such a reaction. She must have been mad, or witless, or just a glutton for punishment.

Even so, this reflection was over and done within a handful of seconds, and then she was answering him, as carelessly as he'd asked his question.

"No, I'm going home. Even if it is bound to be bleak atmosphere." She said, and he nodded quickly, glad to be back on firmer ground. "Actually, I dreamt of it last night. I think I actually miss the smell of the air there."

"The smell?"

"Yes," she said, a quiet smile playing across her lips. "I live in Ryde – that's in the-"

"Isle of Wight, yes, I know," He waved her on impatiently, but her only acknowledgement was a stiff glare of annoyance before she continued.

"Yes, well… The air always smells of the sea, especially on foggy days. It's something I only ever notice after I've been away from home for a long time. Apparently I even miss it enough to dream about it, oddly enough."

"Believe it or not Granger, I think I understand you."

"Well there's an anomaly." She muttered, but he ignored her.

"I can't precisely relate, I mean, it isn't a smell. But I've been thinking lately of the gardens at Malfoy Manor."

"Sounds posh," she grinned, but again, he ignored her.

"They've always been a part of the manor, since it was erected, but my mother's the only person alive now I think who isn't paid to actually care about them." He took on the manner of someone thinking aloud, simply spilling sentences. "I suppose that isn't true, though, is it? I spent more time than I can recall reading in the West garden, near the topiary. More time than I ever spent in my own room."

For a moment, he sounded so wistful that Hermione wanted to prod him along, see what else she could find out about him. But he'd trailed off, and there was an undefinable expression on his face as he looked down the long corridor, past Hermione and past – she suspected – his current surroundings altogether.

He hadn't shared any eye-opening revelation with her, but still, she'd learned something about him that she would have never guessed.

"What would you read?" She asked softly, as though hoping to make him forget she was even there before she could spook him.

"Mayakovski, mostly." He shrugged, and shoved his hands into the pockets of his trousers. "A little Rueben from time to time, you know."

"Mayakovski?" She couldn't stop herself from giggling. "I wouldn't have pegged you for such a romantic."

"I am _not,"_ he said firmly, eyes finally sliding back to look at her. "And neither was Mayakovski, which is why we got on so great."

"You've read the Gloom over Marbeck series, haven't you?"

"Yes, you dolt. The whole thing's spilling with raging battles and an evil king beheading all who dare to look at him funny."

Hermione snorted with laughter and shook her head. "You must've skipped over about three-quarters of each book if you can't guess what I'm referring to." When he only looked at her blankly, she laughed again and went on. "The protagonist is the young prince, Callum Fairgryp, correct? Well, don't you remember when he stepped in to take the punishment of Queen Adelaide's young nephew for stealing from the King?"

He only continued to blink at her, and her amusement turned into slight incredulousness.

"He took the punishment because he _loved_ her, obviously, and that whole debacle _starts_ your precious war in the first place!"

He rolled his eyes yet again, disregarding her.

"That bit's only in the beginning. They never bring her up again, how can I be expected to remember?"

She folded her arms over her chest and regarded him seriously.

"You're toying with me," but when he shook his head, giving her a look which said _you're an idiot_ , she huffed a sigh and asked, "How did Callum die, Draco?"

"He was cursed by the Prime Warlock." He said immediately, as though expecting to receive top marks on a quiz.

"Oh, wow…" Hermione breathed. "Yes. Magden cursed him, well done – because Callum knocked Queen Adelaide unconscious before she could get hit by the curse herself. He _died_ for her, you simpleton, which results in the whole realm falling into darkness. He loved Adelaide too deeply to let her go…?"

He continued to blink in that infuriatingly stupid fashion, but slowly, a look of dim remembrance dawned in his eyes.

"I always thought that bird was just getting in the way," he said, and gave a short bark of laughter. "I thought they were enemies! Well you can hardly blame me; the whole thing's written in backwards sentences, it's hard enough to tell who's who. Anyway, that little sideline plot doesn't mean I'm a bloody romantic, Granger, I'm sorry to tell you."

After a moment, Hermione found her words.

"I won't even try to argue with _that_ ," she said. "But I think you might be a little emotionally stunted, Draco."

"Well just add it to my 'sack of issues', then, and be done with it." He said, but she looked so serious, almost concerned again, that yet another puff of laughter escaped him, which grew into a quiet chuckle.

"What got into you tonight?" she asked exasperatedly, but after a moment, she felt a smile tug at the corner of her mouth. "What? What is there to laugh about?"

When he failed to answer her, she swatted him on the chest, over the pocket of his creaseless shirt. She'd only wanted to make him stop so that she might get a proper answer from him.

He did stop; in fact, she was sure she scared him, enough to make him start violently and stumble backward. Her own laugh flew airily from her throat as he went back with a comical look of shock plastered over his features; even his arms pinwheeled for balance.

She tried to take a mental snapshot of that expression as she reached toward him. Her hand closed firmly on his arm, just above his elbow, and she pulled him forward just before he was about to topple.

And then he was back in balance, standing so close to her that it struck him for the first time just how much taller than her he was.

Now he was the silent one, as she laughed.

"I never want to forget that," she said breathlessly. She was practically quaking with perfect entertainment, her eyes dancing over his face, as though to memorize it. "The formidable Draco Malfoy, terrified of falling on the floor."

"Caught me off guard, is all." He mumbled defensively, but mostly he was busy studying the weather pattern of emotion on her face.

"I've never seen you so afraid," she said, more soberly, and now she was back to that close-lipped chuckle… but for a moment she had looked like a different person entirely.

Draco licked his lips, which were now suddenly void of moisture. He felt something below his chest tumble down into his stomach, and decided without much thought that the sensation was horrific.

"What's wrong?"

The sound of her voice, no longer with that happy note, made him cringe almost guiltily. He reached up with his left hand, and took her hand away from his arm, and was only semi-aware of how her cheeks brightened, as though she only just realized she was still touching him.

She cleared her throat and stepped back from him, almost demurely.

"Go on back to the party," he said.

Hermione watched him turn and walk away with a rather stupid expression on her face, and from her slack mouth, she blurted his name.

He stopped and stood in place for a moment long enough to make Hermione think he would just walk on again without even turning back. She nearly hoped he would, as she had absolutely no idea why she'd called him in the first place.

However, he did eventually turn around, and as he looked at her expectantly (one might even say a little reproachfully) she was forced to say the first thing that came to her mind:

"Have a happy Christmas, okay?"

His expression closed, but he said, "Yeah… You too, Granger." And she still looked so forlorn that he was suddenly adding, "Go back to your party."

* * *

 ** _Author's Note:_**

Hopefully none of you will fault me for the length, because there was quite a bit to write about! I wanted to tighten up the plot, and it didn't feel fair to hack the chapter in two. But I think I've gotten far enough in the story to consider this as the end of Part One. Don't worry, there isn't going to be an eight-month hiatus or anything like that, I'd just like to consider this chapter as a mile-marker, you know?

Thank you, reviewers who wished my sister well; it means a lot to know you can understand. This whole story is dedicated to the lot of you, always kind and always supportive!

Yours Truly,

Emma Perry


	14. Merry Homecoming

Chapter Fourteen –

The world was restless, as Saturday opened and all those students of Hogwarts intending to spend their holidays with family cloistered into clumsy lines, awaiting their turn to board the Express; the winds were low that morning, serving only to ruffle the grass and blow stray locks of hair from behind many an ear, but the air was practically vibrating with static, and the bloated clouds which coated the atmosphere above gave a flat, yellow and almost sickly-looking quality to the light of day. If not for the unmistakable sheen of dew on the grass, it might have been impossible to tell by looks alone what time of day it really was, whether it was not long after dawn, or well into the evening.

Even the people were restless, although _that_ was probably hard to tell just by looks alone as well; the students hardly spoke to one another, and most peered through eyes heavy with sleep, but still, there was a certain stench of fear among them nevertheless. Hermione Granger could understand the fear, even if it was a little ridiculous. It was unlikely that any Dark underlings would wish to launch any sort of attacks on such a mixed variety of children and young adults; pureblood and muggle-born alike were leaving Hogwarts this morning, and besides that, it was beyond certain that at least a handful of Order members were scattered amongst all the jostling bodies, not to mention any officials the Ministry might have seen fit to lend them… Yet, the wet, electric foreboding of yet another storm to come was the perfect breeding ground for paranoid thoughts and uncertain whispers, and fear was like a virus, after all; the pheromones of one could infect many, and so on.

Plus, Hermione reasoned with an oddly detached sort of mindset, there was always the fear of what could happen once the students were home, at least for those who were in anyway close to the Order, or close to The Boy Who Lived.

Slowly the lines to board began to reach some semblance of a rhythm, and things began to move a little quicker. Hermione kept her head down, a hood pulled over her hair mostly to keep the moisture away from her curls, but also to keep away unwanted eyes. She was loath to look upon Harry or Ron, Draco or McLaggen, Ginny, Luna, Dean or Seamus. She wanted to see no one, and rather wanted to be no one.

And so, in the spirit of the coming holiday, Hermione allowed herself a gift, and took a powder.

She shoved toward the very last of the compartments once she was one the train, passed through each section until she was sure she wouldn't see any familiar faces, and chose a compartment occupied by three Ravenclaw third-years, all of whom stopped in their shrieks of laughter as Hermione slid the door aside, and hauled her trunk into the already compact space.

She didn't even bother a look round her shoulder as she lifted the thing over her head and shoved it unceremoniously onto the rack above, but she could feel their reproach in the complete silence. The only response she had for the hateful glances she collected from each of the girls was to spill herself into the empty spot next to the window and open her novel. She would've liked to have been able to tell them they'd only have her presence to put up with for another ten minutes before she was on to the Prefect's cabin, but she'd already decided that her duties would be neglected as far as they could be today. She would be sick, if she needed to be, but she wasn't going anywhere near Draco or McLaggen, and if she chanced to run into Ron or Harry, she was sure she would combust before their very eyes.

She was not fool enough to think that Draco would have listened to her and changed his mind again about going home to the Manor over holiday. Whether or not he would show up himself for his duties, she couldn't have said, however; it was highly likely that he was in the mood to avoid her as well, and from the way he'd left her the night before, part of her was convinced that was his mindset. Still, the chance was there, and she would not be taking it, thank you very much.

Rather than starting a letter to Viktor after the party, as she had so firmly planned to do before bed, she'd stripped half-naked the moment she entered her room and fell on her bed, puzzling away until her mind finally decided to shut down and fall into cryptic and unsettling dreams, dreams that she could not, for the live of her, remember, but she still felt their after-effects now as she stared blankly at a random page in her novel.

Last night had been so packed with actions and developments that it literally made her feel a hollow sort of dizziness when she'd tried to sort it all out; her conscience was apparently split into multiple sorts of being. She was one part happy, one part anxious, two parts frustrated, and six parts confused; time and time again her musings seemed to shift and zero in upon the moment with Draco after she'd found him staring at that painting of horses. She would instantly flash back to how an overwhelming tidal wave of suspicion had flooded her. He never did tell her what he'd been doing to get caught prowling so near to Slughorn's party, and for the hundredth time she wondered why that was… No, Draco had never exactly been the type to divulge even the most trivial bits of information if he was in a less than docile state of mind, but last night he'd been willing enough to talk about something as personal as his love of his mum's gardens.

She wanted to believe that Harry was the one who spurred on such feelings, and it was actually easy for her to tell herself that this particular spark was fueled by her desire to be in Harry's good graces again, and her natural instinct to do what she could to aid him. She could tell herself that she suspected Draco because he was still supposed to be Malfoy to her, and she could tell herself that it was only her subconscious, trying to formulate proper encouragement to steal from someone she had no right to steal from.

She could tell herself all of these things, yet even as they ran through her mind like a purposeful mantra, the aftertaste they left was of lies.

At the very bottom of it all, Hermione could not ignore her intuition any more than she could escape it; any comforting thoughts of Harry's influence or her own defense mechanisms she might have had were only whispered on the forefronts of her mind, whereas darker truths lingered in the back.

Hermione felt a great sigh escape her body on reflex, so suddenly that it almost frightened her. The feeling was similar to that of jolting awake after dreaming of falling. She chanced a glance about the compartment and found three pairs of eyes staring back at her as though she'd just started cackling like a hag, rather than expelling a breath of air. She kept eye contact with the blonde across from her until the younger girl finally had the grace to blush and look away, then Hermione turned fully toward the window and watched as the world outside blurred past, abandoning her book altogether. Rain had already begun to speckle the glass in front of her, and she watched as the speeding winds pushed the drops together, down and up and around.

She was afraid then, that the truth of the matter was that she didn't want to believe any ill of Draco. She didn't want to think of him as a sneaking ferret any longer, hated the idea that she might have a reason to keep an eye on him, after all of Harry's warnings and theories. And it wasn't even because she would have abhorred to have been wrong, it was because it dawned on her now that she'd started to believe that she'd seen a different side to Draco, that she'd begun to uncover something that had always been there.

Although she continuously tried to tell herself that whatever Draco had been doing last night could not have been anywhere near serious enough to contemplate so intensely, she felt in her gut that things were bound to change from here on out. The only thing she could be certain of was that Draco could not keep the Felix Felicis.

* * *

The tall, elegant woman could hear the dirty, frightened man cower the moment she pulled back the bar on the old wooden door, heard the frantic, scrabbling sounds of limbs against hay-strewn stone and a childish whimper. They were the noises of an overgrown rat with nowhere to hide, chained and enchanted in a place it knew it would never leave, hopeless enough to think shrinking into a corner would make it impervious; they were music to her ears.

Standing atop the short flight of stairs that had seen less hazardous days, she took a moment to look at the man huddled against the wall, under the harsh iron hinge that held the chain clasped around one ankle. He was much less fleshy than he had been when she'd taken him, and his clothes – the very same striped pajama set he'd been sleeping in when she'd yanked him from his bed four months ago – were positively rank, with scrapes of brown here and there that were darker than the rest, from spending nights in his own waste. Her nose almost wrinkled as the odor washed over her, but she was able to repress it; she could be proud of seeing the man like this. He was closer to breaking, and when he did, she could finally get whatever vestiges of information he was holding, slit his throat, and be done with it. She might play with him a little more, but after so many months of the same toy, she was quite ready to snap him in two and move on.

She cast a nod behind her, in the direction of the door to the garden shed under which this cellar had been dug and set. Caber, the gardener-turned-guard, loomed in the doorway, past all the equipment. He returned her nod and folded thick arms over his chest, and Bella turned back toward the man below her.

"It appears you have not yet grown to love my visits," she chided playfully, and he won a smile from her as he winced at the sound of her voice. She took the stairs slowly, rather enjoying the dramatic affect the anticipation played, and as she stood over him, she added, "but eventually you will."

"My wife," he croaked, and she huffed with impatience.

" _My wife,_ " she mocked, the shrillness of her voice reverberating from the stones of the cellar. " _Please, tell me where she is, is she safe, is she hurt?"_ She knelt over him, her nose filling with his stench. " _Is she alive?"_

The man turned his face from her and shielded himself from her view with his left arm, hand clenched on the chain hanging over his head as though hoping for a sudden surge of strength to wrench it from the wall. She could hear his ragged breathing, and imagined his heart to be dancing a quickstep in his ribcage.

"I've already learnt the words to that song," she said in disgust, and seized a fistful of hair, forcing him to look at her. "No need to keep singing it."

He only looked back at her with eyes rounded so wide she could see the whites.

Every day he asked for his wife, and every day she refused him any word of her. She'd toyed with the idea of telling him the truth, that his wife had been killed even as his unconscious body was being hauled out of his home, but such a thing would only serve to satiate her desire to see him suffer. For now, his beloved was still a bargaining chip.

She huffed again and released her hold on him, shoving his head back into the wall where he so wanted it to be. He yelped as his nose struck the bricks and covered it with his hands.

As she stood over him again, he picked up his pleas where he left off.

"Madam, have mercy! I've told you all I know – and I know hardly anythin'. I'm a nobody."

"Madam now, am I?" She said. "To think only weeks ago you spat at my shoes and called me a whore."

"The ramblins of a crazed man." He said hurriedly. "Forgive me Madam Lestrange, and let me keep my life. Let my wife keep hers. Please, I've told you all I know. I'm a nobody."

" _That_ we can agree on," Bella sneered, baring her teeth. "You are nobody. But you must have more secrets in that head of yours somewhere, and I mean to dig them out. If you keep on with this farce you truly will grow to love my visits, because each one will bring you closer to your agonizing death."

She drew her wand from her sleeve as deliberately as she'd taken the steps down from the ground floor, once more savoring the theatrics of it all. The man peeked under his arm and began to sob uncontrollably. Bella felt a storm of emotions, from disgust and frustration to amusement and excitement. It was a heady mixture, one that she never seemed to get enough of. There was nothing in this world more satisfying to her than to watch a rat learn its place, to make dogs bend to her will. Perhaps that was why she'd been able to cope with the dementors guarding Azkaban better than most; perhaps they were kindred spirits in some twisted version of the concept, born to breed sorrow and anguish.

Dementors, however, were a scourge, hooded and scabbed all over, unable to feel anything beyond base desire for unattainable fulfillment. _Something sickening rattles deep within them as they breathe, and they glide listlessly in front of black cells with nothing better to do than try to pry whatever sanity they can from grasping, bloated fingers._ She could recall very clearly how they'd wheeze at her, and she'd feel them pulling at her from some point inside her. _They never got much from me, though, did they?_

Bellatrix Lestrange _could_ feel, however, and she could love. She loved the look of terror in the man's eyes beneath her (though she had gotten slightly tired of such familiar eyes), and she loved the man she served. She loved things that could make her proud.

"Shall we begin?" She asked, her tone sweet. "Or are you actually going to make things easier on yourself and confess all your filthy lies outright?"

"I have given you-"

"You've given me _nothing_ ," She barked, her hand flexing over her wand. "And I grow weary with your insolence. Under order of the Dark Lord I command you to confess."

"Madam, I _beg_ you," Bella felt her wrist twitch and an uncontrollable trickle of power leaked through her wand. The man gave a great spasm, his expression twisting into a grimace, and a groan of pain escaped his lips. "I hardly knew the man! He had a sodding desk near me, and his wife had me to supper years ago. _I know nothing more, nothing!"_

His final words were brought forth in screams as Bella finally loosed her frustration on him.

She couldn't have said how long she'd been in the cellar with the man, when she finally left him in his hay, a heap of weeping flesh. The sun hovered much closer to the line of the horizon, and she felt as if she'd been there all afternoon, demanding the answers to the same question she'd been asking him for months. What did he know of the Order? Who were their members? How deep were the Weasley ties in the resistance?

More and more Bella began to wonder if she had wrung all she could from the man, had begun to suspect that she'd gotten all she would ever get within the first week of his little visit. Still, she persisted. There was always the chance that the man simply had an iron will, although she hadn't picked up any sort of indication from him. It was also true that she had not come any closer to catching anyone else of value, and so she determined to keep at him until he either went mad, or shocked her with some new bit of information. Either way, the man would end up dead at the end of it all.

She wiped her hands on the folds of her robe and nodded once again to Caber, and Caber nodded back, moving to bar the door to the shed behind her. From there started down the cobbled path which led to the entrance to the Western wing of the Manor. When she arrived in the kitchen she was unsurprised to spy Narcissa through the arch which opened into the dining hall. She sat at the center of the left row and seemed to be waiting for Bella, their eyes instantly meeting from across the wide space. Bella scowled, the lines of her face etched with annoyance, and she walked through the kitchen to sit across from Narcissa.

"Sister," she greeted her dryly and she tucked herself into her chair. "What is it this time?"

"I only wondered how much longer I should expect your houseguest." Narcissa was equally dry, a fact which grated Bella's nerves.

"I'll keep him for as long as he is useful."

"Is he useful?" Her sister quipped, and Bella's eyes flashed.

"You shouldn't concern yourself with him, if the prospect bothers you so." She said angrily. "Pretend he isn't here, I don't care really. Your meddling isn't helping."

"Perhaps I am simply frightened, Bellatrix, have you ever accounted for that?" Cissy returned hotly. "My home is overrun with strangers! My sister plots behind my back, planting hostages in my cellar, all the while expecting me to have nothing to say about it."

"And what exactly _would_ you say, Cissy, given the chance?" Bella cried. "We are in service to the Dark Lord; this is no longer your home, it is his. These _strangers_ are your brothers and sisters, joined together to bring a new order to the world! You should rejoice to be at the epicenter, whilst such history is being made."

That golden glow had taken over her sister's face, Narcissa observed, with growing unease; that all too familiar look in her eye of absolute reverence and devotion, the same one that was eventually accompanied by a heaving chest and emotional declarations that were Bella's new trademark.

"Everything I do is under the strictest of scrutiny, sister. I cannot sleep at night for the fear of what could happen to me, what could happen to my son, if the Ministry one day comes barreling through the front gate." Narcissa said heavily, feeling her heart lurch in her chest. "And here you are, hiding tortured men under my garden, bringing _creatures_ onto my hearth."

"Greyback is harmless," Bella chuckled derisively. "He wouldn't harm you."

"The fact is your recklessness puts us in danger, Bella."

"My recklessness is merely service." Bellatrix said. "All I've done is to further the cause. I am doing everything I can to bring down the resistance, and I _am_ being careful, although I doubt you will ever credit me for that. Meanwhile, you cower under your coverlet like a frightened rabbit and allow yourself to be haunted of what could happen. You must learn to overcome your fear, Cissy, if you ever hope to be reborn into justice. Fear only serves to weaken, and weakness is useless in times such as these."

"But my son-"

"Your son is my nephew. He is your mother's grandson." Bellatrix leaned back in her seat and studied her sister with a shrewd expression. "I think you have forgotten where you come from, sister. You are a Black, _and_ a Malfoy. Your family legacy, the very foundation of the high seat upon which you sit today, demands for these sacrifices. Your blood requires you to forsake your fear and maintain the standards your ancestors fought to keep pure. The Dark Lord would show you the way, as he showed me, if you would only let him. Instead you plant your head in the ground and refuse to even allow your son to venture down his destined path."

Narcissa bowed her head and simply stared down at her hands folded in her lap.

 _She is insane_ , she told herself mournfully.

When she finally looked up to meet her sister's eyes, Narcissa had cloaked her thoughts and made her face impassive.

"Will you at least tell me who the man is?" She asked plaintively. "He must have something worth all the time you've put into him."

It was Bella's turn to look shifty.

"Bertram Schmal, he used to work for the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office. Shared a cubicle with Arthur Weasley for years before the traitor was promoted." She frowned in distaste. "I thought the two might've been bosom friends… We know so little of the Weasley family… it's hard to tell who they know and who they don't. But we do know they've got feet planted in the resistance. More information about them might help pinpoint where they're quartering the blasted Order."

"I take it Bertram Schmal is hardly any use to you, then." Narcissa remarked casually. She did not want to get her sister wound up any more than she already was; what she wanted was answers, and this was the first time Bella had shown any inclination to speak with her so openly. Narcissa wanted to appear as involved as she could. "Surely I would have at least heard if we'd found the whereabouts of the enemy."

"Do you feel slighted, Cissy?" Bella said suddenly, and Narcissa sighed in response. Hadn't she just laid out a list of offenses she'd felt?

"I feel as though I might be a common streetwalker in my own home," she spoke after a moment's pause. "I only want to… know what's going on. With Lucius in disgrace, no one bothers to trust me with little more than a shopping list."

"It will not be so forever, sister." Bella said, and her tone was full of affection. It was moments like this that Bella almost sounded the way she used to, before her mind began its steady decline. Bellatrix had always been devout in _Toujours Pur_ , and she had always had an explosive temper, but Azkaban had mauled away most of her humanity. "Draco will restore your name. And you can always prove yourself useful to the Dark Lord, if you wished to. But so far all you've done is grumble whenever anything is asked of you. It is up to you how your life will go."

"So far I haven't had much chance to restore my name, Bella."

"You must take your chance." Bella said, in a tone that was almost reasonable. "You are a witch born of pure blood and raised in ancient nobility. If someone will not give you what you wish, _take it from them_."

Once again Narcissa's thoughts wandered to Draco; more than anything she wanted to keep him safe. She had lied to her sister when she told Bella that dreams of the Ministry kept her awake at night; it was the wrath of Voldemort that left her shuddering, wide-eyed and drenched in anxiety, in her bed. It was the fanatic gleam in her sister's eye, in the eyes of all the hard, unmoving Death Eaters. That gleam said that uncertainty was not welcome, that doubt would be gotten rid of, and questions would be answered with pain.

 _Give all you have_ , those eyes said. _And then give more._

Yet, Bellatrix made some measure of sense. Narcissa had been born into this world, and it was all she had ever known. She'd grown up in the luxuries of wealth and good breeding, without much thought to what it all meant. Even at those times when she was most proud to call herself a wife of Malfoy and daughter of Black, she had forgotten that she was either of those things.

Not too long ago she had said something to Draco that was much too similar to what Bella was telling her now.

" _… I'll need you to remember who you are. We can never forget that, my dear. It is too late for us to forget,"_

But even as she'd spoken those words she hadn't really remembered. It was only now, as she stared into her sister's maddened eyes, that she recalled the depths from which she'd sprung. There was no escape from the legacy, as her sister called it. Draco would have returned to it, if he'd ever answered her pleas to come home over the holiday. Now she could be glad that she'd received no answering letter to her request, if only because she realized now how dangerous it could be, with their family tottering on the precipice in this way. It was better that he should remain at Hogwarts until she could find a way to smooth away all the suspicion and frustration Lucius had caused.

Besides, the last she'd heard of him, he was struggling greatly in school. Severus had had the kindness to keep her as informed as he could of Draco's activities and marks, although it was ominous to her that Severus knew so little. What he had been able to tell her was even more unsettling. He was declining in most of his classes, and had even sunk so far in Potions that the new master had appointed him a tutor.

 _Hermione Granger_ , she remembered, a sour expression instantly marring her features.

"What do you look like that for?" Bella whined. "Still pouting, are we?"

"No, I'm thinking…"

She had run into the Granger girl not too long ago, if she was recalling the right person… Of course she was, now the memory was clear as day. She could remember perfectly the insolent current in her look and demeanor, and she could remember perfectly that she hadn't liked the girl from the first glance. Draco hadn't liked her very much either, she'd noted.

But perhaps the girl would be useful. Perhaps she could ask Draco to find out what she could from her, but he would have to be careful, of course; Hogwarts was buzzing with members of the Order of the Phoenix, she had no doubt, and half the staff would gladly take the side of the little mudblood if she should run to the Headmaster and name Draco a bully. Her mouth set into a hard line, wishing she could somehow fill her son's shoes for only a few weeks, if only to get things done properly.

Then two gear wheels clicked into place in Narcissa's head, and she looked up at her sister, slack-mouthed.

" _What is it?"_ Bella hissed, growing impatient.

"That Granger girl – the one Draco goes to school with… He takes lessons from her now." Narcissa replied quietly, thoughtfully.

"And it serves him right." Bella declared haughtily. "If he's allowed that vile little abomination to exceed him in his marks, then he should suffer the humiliation of learning from her. Not that _she_ has anything to teach _him,_ but the sting will prove motivation enough for him to start focusing on his reputation a little more."

"No, Bella, you're not listening." Narcissa spoke up, before her sister could fall into a stride. "Yaxley has you spending all this time trying to dig out information from the Weasely family, but you've been unsuccessful, yes?"

Bella merely raised one eyebrow, pursing her lips and averting her eyes.

"The Dark Lord's return is no secret anymore – every witch and wizard knows. Everyone is scrabbling for any ounce of protection they can find, especially those affiliated with Potter and Dumbledore, so even if you _were_ able to find out the location of the Order, it would not be very beneficial; the place – wherever it is – is bound to be stuffed full of wards and trained Aurors turned over to the Light." Narcissa took a pause, waiting for her sister to cotton on. "You and Yaxley will be hard pressed to find any sort of useful information from anyone in the wizarding world. You must look elsewhere."

"You mean the Muggles?" Bella responded, incredulous. "If you're thinking of Potter's family, all the information we've gathered on them suggests they can't stand him – not that I blame them, of course. It's unlikely they'll know anything. Why bother?"

"I'm not thinking of Potter's family," Narcissa snapped; this time it was she who grew impatient. "Hermione Granger is as close to Potter as the Weasley whelp, and Lucius once told me her parents were in Diagon Alley, with the Weasley's and Potter, all of them shopping together."

"The child brought her Muggle parents into the _Alley_?" Bellatrix expostulated, nearly screeching. "Got no decency, has she, that one?"

"Her decency isn't the point, Bella." Narcissa said. "The Granger's could be sitting upon a wealth of information if they were so involved in their daughter's world. And, considering the only person to ward their home is a sixteen year old witch, I doubt it will be very difficult to slip in and take them into custody."

Bellatrix smiled. "The timing _is_ choice." She said, the smile twisting into something evil. "Perhaps, if she's gone home for Christmas, we can get them all at once. Having the girl would be _much_ better than having her family. She'll know more, and I can get it out of her. Young girls squeal when they break their nails."

 _She's just a child_ , Narcissa wanted to say, but really, what had she expected? She'd given the idea, and it wasn't a bad one; in fact, if she could assist in any way, she might be able to snatch back some of the favor from the Dark Lord Lucius had squandered. From the appraising look her sister was giving her, Narcissa could scarce doubt that it would be a wonderful start, if she could pull it off, and assuming Bella would share credit once all was said and done. _She's a child, but she's also a mudblood. Sooner or later she will have to die, anyway._

"Beg pardon Mistress, you have a visitor."

Narcissa had not even heard the housekeeper come through the doors. She turned her head over her shoulder to look at her; she was a stout woman, getting on in age, but steady for her job. She hardly ever spoke, and could never look Narcissa in the eye for too long a stretch. She had the nervous habit of wringing her hands, as well, which was an oddly agitating thing to watch.

 _Ramona_ , she reminded herself. _Her name is Ramona. She's been with you for seven years; you ought to remember her name._

Today, Ramona was smiling for once, showing her yellowed teeth. Some of them were missing, but Narcissa had to admit that it was still a kind smile.

"Who is it, Ramona?"

"My name is Mary, mam,"

"Christ, _Mary,_ who is it?" Narcissa demanded, rather finished with vexing conversations for the evening.

"It's t' young Master, come home to see yeh!" Mary said, half-whispering in her excitement.

Narcissa felt the color drain from her face in one moment, as her heart plummeted into her abdomen, but in the next her expression was flush with red, and she was sure she was going to cry.

She blinked back her tears and said, "Well, where is he? Tell him to come to me at once."

"Well I'm no' so sure where he is, mam." Ramona said, eyes flickering between the two sisters nervously. "I brough' him in at t' gate and wen' ta bring his bags to Jaime, and when I come back, t' young Master had wandered off. I tried ta find him 'fore I brough' you t'message, but he's escaped me."

"Find him, you _crone_ ," Bellatrix ordered. "He's not a hare, he's a _boy_."

"Right away, mam." Mary whispered, and shuffled away as quietly as she came. Narcissa watched as she went into the kitchen and broke into a short-stepped sort of run once she thought she was out of sight, her expression distraught.

 _Ramona,_ she told herself. _You've_ got _to remember next time._

* * *

Draco could practically drink the nostalgia swimming in the air. He stood where he was for a moment, surrounded as he was by the familiar background of his family's antique hall; there was a time when he'd brought his guests into this little room to show off all his family's dearest, most cherished items, probably smirking each time he did so. His parents rarely had guests with children young enough to go about with him, but when there were other children, Draco always made sure to give them a show.

He'd point out Pricilla's glove, the light blue, dainty thing that would have reached the elbow when worn, that had once belonged to the nearly fabled witch, Pricilla Pasquier, related to him on his father's side, if all the documented lineage was to be trusted; there was the sword believed to have belonged to Calavax Sersin, set with a moonstone in the hilt that had once held a dozen dead enchantments; there were countless rings with amethysts, sapphires and opals, a set of necklaces wrought in silver, twining into intricate vines of rose gold, and strings of pearls, from freshwater to South Sea (their value ranged from low to high, but mostly they were kept as heirlooms, having been passed down through either the Black or Malfoy branch).

Draco had come in here with very little thought; Mary the housekeeper had ushered him in the front door, after insisting upon carrying his trunk herself, and immediately set out, telling him to stay put. But Draco had allowed his mind to wander as he'd looked about the west foyer. He considered going into the kitchen for food; he hadn't eaten on the train, too anxious to think about lunch, and hiding in his compartment with Crabbe and Goyle. In the end however, Draco had taken the door next to it, on nothing more than a whim, feeling the need to be alone, rather than led into his mother's presence. In all likelihood, hiding in the antique hall (which was really nothing more than a squashed little room packed with ornamental boxes and shelves), would be the last minutes he spent alone for the next fortnight.

So he'd stepped quietly into the room and shut the door behind him. In the center of the wall to his left, another door led into the dining hall (which really was a hall), and beside it was the pedestal with Pricilla's glove. Draco walked to stand in front of it, a rueful smile playing on his lips. Was he really _that_ proud of this glove, or those pearls, or all these other treasures that were of absolutely no use to anybody? No, he never had been. He'd been trying to do his duty as a Malfoy when he paraded these things to bored kids with better things to do, showing any and all possible rivals all the glories of his name.

Draco was halted in his reminiscence by the low sound of voices through the door to the dining hall. His fingers paused on Pricilla's glove, and he inclined his head, as though hoping that would help him hear more.

"It will not be so forever, sister." One of them said, and Draco instantly recognized the tone of his aunt Bellatrix. "Draco will restore your name. And you can always prove yourself useful to the Dark Lord, if you wished to. But so far all you've done is grumble whenever anything is asked of you. It is up to you how your life will go."

He heard his mother respond, and instantly felt as if he shouldn't be listening to them like this. Yet he inched closer to the door, nearly pressing his ear to it. "So far I haven't had much chance to restore my name, Bella."

"You must take your chance. You are a witch born of pure blood and raised in ancient nobility. If someone will not give you what you wish, _take it from them_."

They lapsed into silence, and Draco felt anxiety twist in his stomach. After a few beats he heard the two women exchange more words, but they were too brief to pull his attention back to him. _Draco will restore your name_ , Bella had said.

Of course, Draco had known how frightened his mother was, but having her fear presented to him in such a way was stress-inducing. He had known, but it still felt like news to him that his mother was relying on him to murder someone.

 _An author could sell a billion novels writing about my family_ , he told himself, even his thoughts loaded with sarcasm.

In the background, Bellatrix screeched something, and Narcissa responded; this time Draco heard her.

"That Granger girl – the one Draco goes to school with… He takes lessons from her now."

His gaze tore from the glove, which he'd taken again to staring at blankly, and bore into the mahogany wood of the door, as though hoping to see through it.

When Bellatrix formed her reply, Draco pulled out his wand and muttered a spell to help him pick up everything they were saying. He listened with his brows set over intense eyes, jaw flexing tighter as the conversation on the other side of the door developed.

"…"If you're thinking of Potter's family, all the information we've gleaned on them suggests they can't stand him – not that I blame them, of course. It's unlikely they'll know anything. Why bother?"

 _Not Potter,_ Draco thought numbly.

"I'm not thinking of Potter's family," His mother barked. "Hermione Granger is as close to Potter as the Weasley whelp, and Lucius once told me her parents were in Diagon Alley, with the Weasley's and Potter, all of them shopping together."

He listened with a growing sense of dread, and yet, he also had to stuff his knuckles in his mouth to keep from spewing out laughter; it was too funny, after all the threats he'd thrown at Granger, after all her moaning about the risks of her returning home, the risk to her parents, here was Narcissa Malfoy, turning their vile argument into reality.

It really _was_ funny, in a certain light.

Bellatrix was speaking when Draco tuned back in.

"The timing _is_ choice. Perhaps, if she's gone home for Christmas, we can get them all at once. Having the girl would be much better than having her family. She'll know more, and I can get it out of her. Young girls squeal when they break their nails."

He felt whiteness close his throat, and in a moment he was hooking his finger into the collar of his shirt, pulling the fabric away from his sweltering neck. The laughter had fled him. _Nothing you can do_ , he told himself _, she should've bloody stayed at the castle, even she knew it. Not your fault, nothing you can do._

He was rooted to the spot, caught off guard in the worst sense of the word; he could still go into the kitchen, and pretend as though nothing had happened, he hadn't heard a thing. He could wander around some more or go up to his bedroom until he was forced into his mother's company, his aunt's company.

Mary the housekeeper's voice rang to him through the door, closely followed by his mother's. "Tell him to come to me at once."

His own face went under a spasm as he heard the emotion in his mother's voice. He could go into the kitchen and pretend that nothing had happened, he hadn't heard a single thing. But Bellatrix would know. Bellatrix would analyze his mind the moment she saw him, he couldn't doubt that after so much experience with it. She would read the terror he felt, and she would hear the thought he'd had the moment Hermione's name came barreling through his dear mother's mouth; _not yet, not her._ It was a damning thought, for Granger as well as for himself.

 _There's only one thing to do, I suppose._

Draco waited until he heard Mary's footsteps fade in the opposite direction, most likely going to look for him in the garden, he understood, and then he bolted from the antique room and up the first staircase he came across in the long hall of the main entrance. As he ran through the Manor it occurred to him – seemingly for the first time – just how _big_ the place was. He moved his legs as quickly as he could for a full minute at least before he finally made it to his bedroom, where he was thankful to find his trunk placed at the foot of his bed; Jaime was nothing if not timely.

He seized the handle of his trunk and gave a great heave, practically carrying it in both arms as he fled his room. He took much greater care finding the exit than he had taken finding his bedroom, what with the thirty pound boulder in his arms. He checked around corners before passing any corridor, feeling ridiculous all the while. It was only when he'd emerged from the Manor onto the front walk that he stopped to look back at the place, fully aware that he hadn't even spent a quarter of an hour within its walls. He thought of his mother, and what she would feel when t' young Master was found to have fled, and what Bellatrix would do to Mary the housekeeper; the woman would probably be blamed somehow, he knew.

He should never have come in the first place, and he cursed himself for a fool, thinking of what he would be in store for if he remained; Malfoy Manor was positively stuffed with unwanted guests, one of whom stuck out in his mind now. He walked toward the front gate, baffled with himself. What had he thought he was doing, rushing home to Voldemort and Yaxley and the Carrows, to prisoners chained to the walls of the cellar and weekly meetings of the wizarding world's Elite Evil? He had the Mark, yes, but why should he come rushing back to the source of all the madness if he didn't have to? Especially considering he'd yet to make much progress with his plan… He had the Felicis, sure, but he had yet to puzzle out exactly when he should use it, and how.

"Where d'you think you're headed off to?" the guardsman at the front gate, Aryn Cottlemere demanded, though his demeanor was as jovial as it usually was. "Don't tell me you're leaving your poor old mum already."

"Don't let her hear you call her that, Cottlemere, or you'll be out of your post," Draco said, easily enough, though he could still feel the fabric of his shirt clinging to his skin. "I've left half my books at the school, and my mother is already bound to hang me by my toes for my marks. I'll just pop back for them and come back in a day or so. If my mother hasn't already heard I was here, let her know what I've told you."

Old man Cottlemere nodded, and Draco was relieved to see no marks of suspicion in his visage; it was a bad lie, a transparent lie. Books were not easy to forget for a student bent of making up his marks, and few people would ever trouble making such a journey as the one from Hogwarts to the Manor four times just for study material. But while Aryn was dependable and friendly to a fault, he was also as thick-skulled as the bottom of a testing cauldron.

"Aye, I'll let her know." Said the old man, "Best you be going, then, before you've wasted half your break."

Cottlemere waved his wand and the front gate swung open on its oiled hinges to let Draco through. He kept himself from looking back again, afraid that his expression might betray him, but the guilt was demanding to be felt. Surely Narcissa would expect him back, but he wouldn't be honoring that promise, and that was assuming she wouldn't see right through his farce at the first mention of it. There were other things he had to do, and even once he was through with them he planned to avoid this place for as long as he had the option.

Strangely enough, after all of that, the biggest regret he had (besides abandoning his mother within minutes of stepping into his own home) was that Granger had once again been right in her advice.

 _She should be glad I came though,_ he thought smirking humorlessly to himself. _I might just save her sodding skin_

* * *

 _ **Author's Note:**_

Hey guys! I'm so glad to have been able to post another chapter after only a week! I've been going at it like crazy, between everything else that keeps my schedule busy. I wasn't going to add a note this time, as I fear some of you may get sick of constantly hearing from the author, but I wanted to address a few of the reviews I've gotten for these last few chapters.

First, people keep telling me how surprised they are that I don't have more reviews in the first place, but don't be! I don't really mind, to be honest. If I wanted more, I'd submit _All Things Questionable_ into a contest or two (not that I'm against it, I just don't think I've found any that I could win ;p). I'm perfectly happy with the reviews I've gotten, because the majority of them are actually well thought-out and critical, and I adore that. I would rather have a handful of meaningful reviews than scores of empty ones. I only felt the need to clear that up so that all of you who have shown such dedication to my story will hopefully realise how grateful I am for it.

The second thing I wanted to talk about was Hermione's decision to steal the potion from Draco. I love Draco deeply as a character, especially now that he's started to go under a little development, and I know that some of you are upset with Hermione for choosing to take it if she can... But let's not forget that he _is_ plotting to use the potion to either murder Dumbledore or fix the Vanishing Cabinet... Now, I understand that _Hermione_ doesn't know such specifics, as we do, but if there's one thing Hermione trusts more than Dumbledore, it's her intuition. Her intuition is a common thread in this string of events, and it comes into play as she talks with Draco after Slughorn's party. She doesn't know the specifics, or even the depths, really, but something is telling her he can't be trusted with the Felicis. You may call her integrity into question, but in a lot of ways, Hermione makes up her mind to do it because of her integrity. I may not have made it clear in the chapter, but Hermione doesn't want to do it, and it doesn't have anything to do with Harry. It's just something she feels, and she even regrets that she feels that way, if that makes any sense. But, at the end of the day, Hermione can't run from her intuition. That's part of what makes her so strong.

Besides, Draco _can't_ keep the potion, not if I want to keep the story in the direction I plan to take it.

Yours Truly,

Emma Perry


	15. Losing Time, Mounting Tension

***Insert obligatory apology for chapter length here***

* * *

Chapter Fifteen –

Hermione Granger pressed the end of her ball-point pin (a luxury she had lived without for the past three months, and also one which she thought the Wizarding world should adopt; quills were so bothersome) into her bottom lip, once, twice, three times, clicking the point in and out, a rather vacant expression on her face. Her eyes skimmed through the letter perched in her hand, a full sheet, front and back.

It was a good letter; it seemed to sum up all the things she felt that she hadn't been able to say to Harry at Slughorn's party, the things she should have said to him the following day, if she hadn't been too vexed to want to see him. She wasn't angry anymore, so there wasn't any extraneous emotion to be found in the words, and she'd tried her hardest to be fair in the things she said (although, are any of us ever _completely_ impartial to ourselves?). But even as she appreciated it, she knew she would never send it. Harry wasn't necessarily the writing type, and when a letter did come from him– and letters only came from Harry when he was up to his ears in boredom, which was not very likely his state of mind while he was occupying the happy Burrow - it was usually nothing more than a half-page about the minutiae of his life. He would probably only be annoyed to have to pursue anything half so serious as the page Hermione had penned.

Plus, there was also the fact that Hermione didn't have an owl, and she wasn't about to take on _that_ sort of maintenance for the sake of one letter.

Instead of sending it, Hermione slid open the top drawer of her desk and slipped it in there for safe keeping; it was possible that she might bring it back to Hogwarts with her and hand it over to Harry then, but mostly she'd written it for the purpose of getting her feelings out onto paper. She had always found writing to be a great technique for catharsis, especially when one is writing so directly.

Indeed, she did feel better. Perhaps she wasn't as relieved as she would have hoped, but it was nice to feel like she'd let some of the stress out.

Her parents, despite Hermione's initial resolution to appear as happy and carefree as possible, were not to be fooled; they picked her up from King's Cross station with smiles on their faces, but eventually, those smiles faded. It was a long way from London to Ryde (approximately three hours, if you must know), and less than halfway through it Penelope Granger had taken enough worried glances at her daughter through the rear-view mirror, that she'd broken the silence with, "Are you alright, dear?"

And she'd been asking ever since.

Hermione felt like the most sullen teenager on the planet with her mother's constant worry, and her father's continuous brooding silence; Douglas Granger was a man of few words, but when things were mucky he always pulled his eyebrows together and frowned in the same way.

Last night, after the three of them had finally made it home, Hermione went up to the second floor of her family's modest house and heaved her trunk onto her bed to take out her night clothes. Before she could so much as pull her jumper off over her head, however, her mother's voice beckoned from the kitchen below.

They were both sitting at the table with concerned expressions, and Hermione immediately braced herself for a kindly-meant interrogation. She sat on the side opposite them and folded her hands in her lap, waiting, until finally, her mum once again broke the silence.

"I'm sure you can guess why we called you down," Penelope said. "And I don't want you to feel cornered, but your father and I are worried for you, darling."

"I know," Hermione responded so softly that she couldn't be sure whether her mother had heard or not; Penelope went on either way, however.

"You hardly ever write to us anymore, so we haven't much of a clue about what you get up to at school. Seeing you today… it wasn't alarming, I won't say that," her mother cleared her throat. "Actually, I don't know how to put it… You just look… off."

"I don't know what that means," Hermione said slowly, feeling suddenly self-conscious.

"You've lost weight, little dove, and you look pale." Her father said, and she was almost taken aback at the sound of his voice; he usually contributed very little to such serious conversations. "You look as if you haven't slept in a fortnight. Is it school? How are your marks?"

"My marks are fine, Dad," Hermione said, somewhat offended. But she tried to push that to the back of her mind, recalling that they were only concerned for her. They were only doing what parents were supposed to do. "I won't lie, this year has been remarkably stressful, but it isn't anything that I can't handle. We're all on N.E.W.T. level now, trust me, I'm not the only one who's had sleepless nights."

Her father nodded thoughtfully, and Hermione thought he was satisfied, but even as her mother kissed her goodnight, she knew Penelope was not.

She smoothed Hermione's hair back from her face, and looked at her affectionately, but beneath that affection Hermione could still see that Mother's Concern swimming restlessly in her eyes. She thought of it as she went upstairs for a bath, and even as she wrapped her hair in a towel, Hermione couldn't escape that look; in and of itself it hadn't been much. Any decent parent on the face of the Earth has probably worn an expression exactly like the one in Penelope's eyes countless times, but it still sent little reminders through Hermione's brain that it would only get worse from here.

Douglas and Penelope Granger weren't especially involved in the magical world; they liked to see the strange candies Hermione might bring home from Honeydukes, or marvel over things like E-Z Kleen and enchanted quills, but the darker side to the world was completely unknown to them; even now Hermione wondered how much they really understood about Voldemort and the Death Eaters. Sure, she'd shared certain things about Harry before with her parents, but she'd never told them about her part in the hunt for the Sorcerer's Stone, or how her best friend's rat had turned out to be a cowardly, traitorous, conniving little murderer that had sat with her and her friends countless nights in an empty common room. She'd never even told them the whole truth about what had happened second year, with the basilisk.

Of course McGonagall had dispatched a letter to Hermione's parents when she was petrified, but, once Hermione was safely home at the end of term and able to read the letter herself, she'd found that McGonagall had been fairly stingy with the information she provided. The letter had merely stated that Hermione had been in an accident involving other muggle-borns, that the issue was being investigated, and that Hermione would be in no further danger, as well as receive all proper medical attention.

Not that Hermione could blame McGonagall, or Dumbledore for that matter, as he had probably been the one who orchestrated such damage control; too much word of mouth could lead to every student packing their bags for home, and floods of angry parents demanding repercussions for an uncontrollable monster.

No, she did not think her parents understood the full danger of the magical world; even little twelve-year-olds were subject to accidents and attacks, and with greater power comes deeper evil.

Eventually, however (and here was the real kicker), Hermione would _have_ to tell them everything. She planned to tell them everything by the end of this visit, in fact, and persuade them to seek safety. She would have to tell them that she couldn't go with them, and they would have to trust her. And then she would see real fear in her mother's eyes, the kind of fear that makes the Mother's Concern look like joviality. She would be told that she had no choice to come with them; she would have to argue with them and hurt them.

The fact of the matter was that Hermione Granger _was_ close to Harry Potter; it wouldn't matter if tomorrow Harry changed his mind about making amends with her, and decided never to speak to her again; from the enemy's point of view, Hermione could have information, and so could anyone who knew her well.

And as she had sat on the closed seat of the privy, shaving her legs, she was interrupted from her thoughts by the sound of conversation in the sitting room. The telly was turned to her father's favorite true-crime documentary series (as Hermione recognized the tones of Dick Duncan, Investigative Reporter, dolefully recounting the brutal death of one Marcia Flannigan), but under that she could definitely hear her parents exchanging quiet words; for once she was not glad that sounds carried so well in her house.

She sucked in a deep breath and held it tight, wanting not to listen but unable to help it.

"She hasn't even mentioned Harry, or that lanky one – what was his name? We met his parents a while back, jolly people, red hair…"

"Ron Weasley, dear," came her mother's voice, sounding a trifle annoyed. "Really, you're terrible with names. But… I noticed that as well. Usually they're all she talks about, besides her studies."

"You don't think they've had it out, do you?"

"No, of course not. Surely she would have told us."

"Because she's been an open book, hasn't she, Pen?" Hermione was surprised to hear the frustration in his voice, and she frowned down at her kneecaps. "It wouldn't come as much of a shock if she's split off from them. It would explain why she's been so distant, why she looks so downtrodden."

"Don't even think that way, Doug." Her mother snapped. "We both know how hard it was for Hermione to make friends in the first place, we shouldn't be talking about this sort of thing."

"She's our _daughter_ , Penelope. Of course we should talk about this." Her father's voice had risen, nearly drowning out Dick Duncan's tale of murder and woe. "Or would you prefer to stick your head in the sand and wait for her to unravel?"

" _Unravel?_ She's only stressed, Doug, you heard her. It's perfectly natural for a teenaged girl to distance herself from her parents. We've said what we can, if she needs us, she'll come to us."

"It's our job to make sure she doesn't have to."

Hermione rose suddenly, and ventured to the sink to turn on the tap, hoping the rush of water would drown out their voices. She couldn't remember the last time they'd come so close to an argument, and the fact that it was about her sent a knife twisting in her gut.

 _I should've just stayed at the castle,_ she thought, more angry at herself now than ever. She'd said as much to Draco Malfoy, had told him that she'd do better to remain at Hogwarts over the holiday as much as he would, and yet, she'd gone against her own better judgment.

For the first time since her parents had picked her up, Hermione wondered now what Draco was doing; he was bound to be home by now, bound to be back at the Manor, surrounded by God only knew what sort of people, filling his head with even more blood-prejudice than he'd had before.

She thought of the way their last interaction had gone, how he'd seemed so disturbed to be near her and (the recollection caused a fresh blush to redden her face) have her touching him. But before that, before he'd taken her hand from his arm and told her to go back to the party, he'd looked down at her with that enigmatic expression in his eyes, studying her as though wanting to laugh with her, but too uncertain to let himself.

Then, quite suddenly, she was torn from her reverie by a sharp knock on the door.

"Yes?" She squeaked, pulling the towel more tightly around her on instinct.

"Are you alive in there, little dove?" It was her father, sounding as though he were doing his best to remain calm. "You've been in there quite a while."

"I'm alright, Dad. I'm just getting ready for bed."

"Your mother and I are turning in for the night. Will you be okay?"

"I'll be okay," she answered, feeling a little sad; her father hardly ever felt the need to keep such tabs on her. She could only imagine how worried he really was on the inside, as he was never wont to show the full extent of his feelings. If he was going so far as to make sure she hadn't slit her wrists in the tub, she truly must have looked awful to her parents.

"I love you, Hermione." He said, with a long breath, and Hermione felt something tighten in her throat.

"I love you, Dad. See you in the morning."

"See you."

She heard his footsteps recede down the hall, and she listened until they'd faded completely, realizing now that she had done a horrible job at keeping things under wraps. Her parents were no fools; even if they didn't know precisely what was wrong, they knew _something_ was going on. Hermione's plan had been to spend the next fortnight reassuring them in every way she could before she broke the whole, ugly news to them, but instead all she'd done was put them on their toes, and probably caused a few rows between them for days to come.

Hermione pulled the towel from her hair and fluffed her damp curls over her shoulder, hoping to let her head dry a little more before bed. She dried the floor around the tub, folded the towels she'd used, and turned off the light as she left, padding quickly and quietly across the passage to her bedroom.

She kept the light off in her room and fell onto her bed immediately, wondering what she could possibly do with herself for the next hour; it was only nine, much too early to call it a night, and yet she felt like doing absolutely nothing. Perhaps she would just lay here on her stomach, thinking away by herself…

* * *

Of all the places in England, Granger had to live in Ryde.

The town in and of itself wasn't anything to sneeze at, necessarily; it was of a pretty decent size, and from what he had seen, not too many shabby areas, but everyone he could see were muggles, not a single drop of magical blood to be found, and the streets were formidable to anyone who didn't know the area; the same thing could be said of any town or city anywhere, but Draco had come to _this_ bloody place, where the air smelt of the sea, and the walkways were nearly deserted. He felt as if he'd stumbled into some retirement village.

He'd arrived at Ryde Esplanade railway station from the National Rail network around 7:00 p.m., just as the sun had officially begun to reach the end of its set, and for two hours he'd wandered aimlessly, looking for any sign of Granger or her muggle parents; after only half an hour he'd started cursing himself for a fool, berating himself for not thinking things through, and by now he was ready to rake his nails down the skin of his own face.

The last thing he'd wanted to do was stop and ask for directions. He could not recall any instance in all his life that he'd so much as made eye-contact with a muggle, let alone _talked_ to one, but in the end, he was forced into even that basest of shames.

He settled on a mother walking hand-in-hand with a child who looked to be about three or four, and who kept trying to stick his grubby little hands in the pockets of Draco's trousers.

"Have you any idea where I might find the Granger residence?" He asked, after having looked at his watch and found that it was a quarter past nine o'clock; his nostrils were flared and his teeth were gritted, and talking to this tawny-haired woman actually seemed to be causing him physical pain, but he knew that if he waited any longer, he'd be hard-pressed to find anyone to ask at all, and by now his trunk had grown quite heavy.

"Granger residence? Thomas, stop that," the woman reached down and claimed her son's hand before it could venture any nearer to Draco's pocket, a harassed expression on her face. "I don't believe I know anyone by that name."

"Who might I ask, then?" He said, a little harshly, he knew, because the woman's eyes widened a little in what Draco assumed were alarm. He forced himself to take a breath. "I apologize… I've been looking for my… friend… all evening, and I've got no clue where she lives."

"Could you tell me anything more about her?" The woman asked, sighing in frustration and bending to pick up her son as he'd once again made for Draco's pocket. "Granger is a fairly common surname."

"All I know is that her parents are tooth doctors."

The woman's face twisted in confusion. "Tooth doctors? You mean to say they're dentists?" Draco shrugged noncommittally. "I'm sorry, sir, but I don't know any Granger. My dentist is Robert Anhalt."

Draco turned from the muggle woman without so much as a thank-you, and continued down the walk, looking for anyone else to ask. He stopped in front of a brown brick building with a red and white sign reading Iceland. It appeared to be some sort of market, but the lights were off and there wasn't a person to be seen inside. He walked to the edge of the curb and sat down, flinging his trunk on the ground next to him, feeling stupid.

A man in dirty white coveralls with a blue rag hanging from his back pocket passed in front of him.

"You wouldn't happen to know any dentists by the name of Granger, would you?" Draco asked, not even bothering to look at the man.

"You mean Doug Granger, or his wife, Penny?"

Draco's head snapped up.

"Either will do."

* * *

Hermione's brain kicked into alertness, and she raised her head from her bed spread, feeling a string of drool cascade from her bottom lip to a small pool on the blanket. She wiped her mouth and sat up, looking around dimly, uncertain all of a sudden; the air in her room felt much too still.

A great, ear-shattering _crack_ erupted somewhere right in front of her bed, and all at once there was something _solid_ right there, a mere foot away from her.

That something uttered a hushed curse and then toppled forward, and Hermione dove out of the way, tumbling off the end of her bed in the process.

" _Impedimenta!"_ She screeched, a split second before it dawned on her that her wand was tucked away in the drawer of her night table.

"Granger, relax – argh! _Bloody hell!"_ Draco Malfoy's left hand swung to his nose, which was now spurting blood at an alarming rate.

"Get out of here, I'm warning you!" And once Draco saw her fist coming toward him again, he quickly reached out and grabbed her arm, twisting her and pinning it behind her back.

"It's _me,_ you _sodding idiot!"_ He hissed directly into her ear, and his words were followed with several seconds of stunned silence.

"Draco?" She asked, somewhat wildly, and he could practically feel her heart beating ferociously through her back.

" _YES,"_ he hissed again. "Now be quiet, or you'll wake the whole neighbourhood."

She shivered at the feel of his breath in her ear, but otherwise she was silent, and after a moment he released her. She turned to face him, looking suddenly bashful, whereas only a moment ago she'd been positively crazed. Her eyes found her shoulder.

"You bled on me," she accused, and Draco scoffed.

"Yes, well, you made me bleed."

Her only response was to cross the room to the other side of her bed, and Draco flinched ridiculously as she passed by him, as though expecting another blow.

Hermione took her wand from the drawer of her night table and pointed it at his face. He ducked out of the way, hand clamped to his nose to staunch the flow of blood.

She stepped forward and grasped him by the shoulder.

"Stay still, you big baby," she said, her jaw clenched. She centered the point of her wand at his face again and muttered, " _episky."_

Draco heard his own nose creak and crack back into place, and not even a moment later, the blood had stopped.

" _Hermione!?"_ Douglas Granger's alarmed voice came from the floor below, followed by thundering footsteps.

" _Stay here_ ," She whispered, half in a panic, flinging an old quilt over her shoulders (to hide the blood, Draco assumed), and bounding toward her door. "I'm alright, Dad!" She cried as she left, shutting the door behind her.

Draco heard her stop a short way from her door, followed by an exchange of words he didn't bother listening to fully. He heard her say, "I tripped over my desk chair, that's all," before he tuned her out and took to walking about her room, looking around at all her things.

Books were _everywhere._ There was a small stack on her desk, a taller stack by the door of a small cupboard that threatened to topple at any moment, and two squat little shelves on either side of her bed absolutely packed full of them. Draco flung himself on her bed and reached under it, picking a random book from one of the dozens stuffed under the dust ruffle. He turned it over and smiled to himself as he read the title: _Gloom over Marbeck_ , _Book Three_. There was a tattered bookmark about three-quarters of the way through the volume, and Draco flipped to that page, beyond amused to find that she had scribbled _Hermione Granger + Callum Fairgryp_ in the right margin.

"Well now we know who the real romantic is," he said to himself, vowing to mock her for this little find later, when it would embarrass her more.

He leant over the bed once more and slid the book back where he'd found it, his eyes skimming about to drink in all the Granger-esque details; her walls were painted a delicate shade of purple (although, it might have looked more periwinkle in the light of day, it was hard to tell in the dark), and there was an autographed copy of some book titled _To Kill a Mocking Bird_ mounted in an item frame next to the window in front of her desk. And, on the desk there was a stack of letters bound by a length of string, probably from her pathetic little friends from over the years, which he was tempted to dig into, but he knew he didn't have the time for that.

As if on cue Granger slipped back into the room, snapping the door shut as quietly as she could with an unreadable expression on her face. She walked over to the bed and let the quilt she'd had wrapped over her shoulders fall into a heap at the foot of it. He noticed now that she was wearing a very long T-shirt with a picture of a yellow bird over her chest, and he could see her pale legs by the light of the moon streaming through her window. He remembered a time not so long ago, as they had walked together from the dungeon to the Great Hall, when he'd imagined she must have had some pretty decent legs; he hadn't been wrong.

Her skin was like alabaster, creamy white and most likely smooth to the touch. He wondered why she didn't bother to cover herself, as Granger had always struck him as one of the more modest types of girls, but he wasn't about to go pointing it out to her.

"How did you get in here?" She asked quietly.

"I Apparated."

"There's no way you've got a license for that." She said, and when he gave her a blank look, she pursed her lips and nodded. "Right. Well, who taught you, then?"

"Does it matter?"

She shrugged. "No, I suppose it doesn't. But… How did you Apparate into my bedroom? I've had wards up around my house for more than a year."

Draco snorted. "A charm as weak as yours would serve to keep out the likes of Longbottom – _maybe –_ but for someone with my skills, you'll have to do better."

He watched as she frowned intently. "I see." After a few moments of prolonged silence, she said, "You're lucky I didn't have my wand on hand. I would have cursed you into oblivion."

"You managed just fine without it," Draco returned dryly. "You broke my nose, Granger."

"I thought you were a Death Eater." She said defensively. "How was I to know Draco Malfoy, of all people, would show up in my bedroom in the middle of the night?"

"Ten o'clock is hardly constitutes the middle of the night," He responded, but his anxiety had suddenly risen; in all the tumult, he'd actually forgotten why he'd come here in the first place. "But aren't you going to ask me why I came?"

"I figured it would be simpler to let you tell me." She said, and to his surprise she sat on the bed next to him. "Is everything okay?"

"Actually, no, everything is complete shit," he answered, resisting the urge to scoot further away from her. "For you, anyway."

"I have no idea what that means, Draco," she sighed.

"I went home to the Manor, as you are aware," he said, his tone uncharacteristically matter-of-fact, but he was busy trying to find the best way to say what he had to say. "As soon as I got there I overheard a conversation about you, and your family."

Granger's eyes immediately went round, and he found himself thinking, _Here I am, to confirm all your fears,_ with a bitter sort of amusement.

"Who were they?" Granger murmured. "Speaking, I mean."

He gritted his teeth, simultaneously unwilling to admit the hairy details, but knowing this whole thing would go a lot more quickly if he did.

"My mother and my aunt." He said, and Granger nodded, waiting for him to go on. "My mother had it from Snape that you're tutoring me now, and it got her to thinking that your family might have information regarding that Order of the Phoenix Dumbledore put together last year. Bellatrix will be coming for you, soon. They hope to have you and your family in for questioning before you can return to Hogwarts."

Granger nodded, and when she spoke, her tone was oddly detached.

"Well, alright then."

Draco looked at her with hooded eyes, waiting for more of a reaction, but she only sat there, silent for so long that he was tempted to wave his hand in front of her face to check for signs of life.

"So… You've got to leave…" He continued.

"I can't just _leave,_ " she said finally, and Draco was relieved to see that she was looking at him once more. "I have to get my parents somewhere safe."

"Well, yes, obviously… But where?" He asked. "Have you got any other family that could take them in, anyone who could protect them?"

"Any magical relatives, you mean?" She responded, and he nodded. "No, not that I know of. They'll have to go abroad, I expect. There's always Seattle, my mum's got family there, but I'll have to convince them to go without me."

"You'd do better to go with them."

"You know I can't do that."

"Then, where will you go? Back to Hogwarts?"

"No, I'll go to the Burrow." When he looked confused, she clarified, "That's what the Weasley's call their house."

"If you won't go with your parents, you'll be safer at the school." Draco pointed out.

"I don't want to go back to school after something like this," she said, sadness coloring her voice for the first time. "Not alone, anyway. Besides, Harry and Ron should know that the Death Eaters are beginning to target us."

Draco nodded, his expression thoughtful. He looked down at his hands and wondered what he would possibly have to say for himself when his mother started asking questions. How would he explain where he had gone, what he had done? How could he possibly cover this up? He would have called this whole adventure a mistake, but couldn't quite bring himself to do so.

It was a moment before he realized that Granger was staring at him.

"What?" He said, feeling as though she'd been reading his thoughts.

"You came all the way here to warn me." She said, and it wasn't a question. Draco couldn't think of a response, and was exceedingly grateful when it appeared that Granger had nothing more to say about it. Instead she asked, "How long have I got?"

"I'd say a day, perhaps more. Bellatrix has been known to move pretty quickly, but my mother likes to plan things out, so that should by you some time. Either way, you've got to get moving quickly." He looked at his watch again, which read just after ten.

"Not tonight, please." Granger said, and when he looked at her, her eyes were closed, her brows knitted together, and it was easy to imagine that she was crying behind those tightly-shut lids. But when she opened them, her eyes were dry, if a little bright. "It seems cruel to wake them again in such a way… But… Do you think you could stay?"

He raised his eyebrows, the word _no_ on the tip of his tongue; he'd only come to warn her. He had to get back to the castle and formulate some serious damage control.

"Just until tomorrow," she pleaded, quickly. "Perhaps it will be easier to explain if I have someone else with me who knows what's going on… You can have my bed; I'll sleep downstairs, on the couch."

"I… Yeah, alright. Why not?" The words left his mouth without so much as asking permission, but he found it impossible to deny her that much, after having just brought such dismal tidings. "I will take your bed, though. And a shower."

"Go on, but be quiet. If my father finds a strange boy in my tub at this hour, he'll strap you down and yank out your molars."

Once he was gone Hermione slumped forward and cradled her head in her hands, yet no tears came.

 _I must be in shock_ , she thought, and really, that was the only explanation for the lack of feeling she had. Or, perhaps her calmness had more to do with the fact that she had expected little else, she'd only thought that she had more time. This wheel had started turning so abruptly.

When she heard the water start across the hallway, it occurred to her for the first time that Draco had brought his trunk. Acting automatically, she picked herself up from the end of her bed and went to her knees on the floor beside the trunk, snapping the latches and letting the top spill open. Everything was neatly folded, and in the back of her mind she was pleased to see his Potions text mixed in with all the socks and trousers. She rifled through the contents quickly, hardly feeling any sort of anxiety at going through someone else's things, which was very unlike Hermione Granger. Eventually, she came across a Slytherin tie wrapped around what was unmistakably a glass vial, and in a moment she had the Felix Felicis in the palm of her hand.

She cradled it, remembering the time when Draco had first let her hold it, all the while grinning with perfect pride. She also remembered her exchange with Harry at Slughorn's party.

 _Even if he were the happiest, nicest bloke on campus, I would still need that potion, Hermione_.

She worried her bottom lip between her teeth, thinking and thinking and thinking; it was true that Harry needed the luck, she'd seen that in the desperate look of his eyes. And, really, Harry was carrying out a mission directly from Dumbledore, and apparently it was something he couldn't hope to accomplish without this potion. If she _didn't_ take it, wouldn't she be hindering all their work? Not that she even knew what that work _was,_ exactly, but hadn't Dumbledore told her specifically to be there for Harry if and when he asked for help?

 _He also told you to be there for Draco_ , her thoughts rang throughout her head accusingly. _He's just saved your life, and here you are, searching through his things like a common theif!_

She might've felt as though she had a Devil on one shoulder, and an Angel on the other, arguing the causes of right versus wrong, but the situation was far too complex for that analogy; there was every reason in the world to take the potion, and there was every reason in the world to let him keep it.

She tried to remind herself of that flash flood of suspicion that had come over her the night after Slughorn's party, as she stood with Draco in that dark corridor, tried to remind herself of that overwhelming gut feeling that no good could come of Draco having such a powerful tool as Felix Felicis, liquid luck.

But Draco was _here,_ using her shower, after having just betrayed his mother and his aunt to make sure she was safe. No one who was evil, no one with ill intent would do such a thing. Anyone wishing to garner favor or carry out the wishes of the Dark Lord would never forewarn a victim of their coming abduction and torture, and although she wanted more than anything to help Harry, her conscience could not reconcile stealing from Draco. Especially not as she recalled the triumphant smile on his face as Slughorn handed him the potion.

As she wrapped Draco's Slytherin tie back around the Felicis, she vowed that she would find another way to help Harry, that she would get that memory from Slughorn herself, if she had to.

So with a belly full of mixed feelings, resulting in nausea that roiled all the way up to her throat, Hermione gathered up her quilt and took a pillow from her bed, and made her way downstairs to the sofa in the sitting room, knowing that it would be hours before she fell asleep.

* * *

Although Ryde experienced more sunny weather than most English towns, Hermione was a bit taken aback to see a complete lack of clouds in the sky the next morning, what with her bleak mood, and the fact that for nearly a year now it had seemed that constant storms would be the new norm until the end of days. She rose from her tumultuous sleep (if one can really consider four hours of semi-conscious tossing and turning to be sleep) before her parents and took herself over to one of the bay windows near the front door of her house, marveling at the clean rays of sun that filtered down on her face through the glass.

A long time ago, she'd read an essay by Ralph Waldo Emmerson called Nature, and one paragraph amongst the pages had always stuck out to her; Emmerson claimed that Nature had the ability to mirror the emotions of lookers-on, so that the most melancholy of persons might find something gloomy about even the most pristine of spring mornings… At times like this, Hermione was more than inclined to agree with that assessment.

She felt rather as though the sun were mocking her, truth be told; only yesterday all of Ryde had been subject to oppressive, swollen gray clouds and a cold mist that had caused ghostly halos to form around the headlights of every passing car on the street, and now that Hermione had every reason to crave the stormy sympathy of the atmosphere, the sun was blazing higher and higher above the line of the horizon, giving a golden glow to the leaves of all the trees which only grew brighter as the minutes lapsed.

She pulled her grandmother's quilt more tightly around her as though to swaddle herself like a squalling newborn, and turned away from the window, making for the kitchen table to wait for her parents to wake up. She knew Draco wouldn't come downstairs until she went to fetch him herself (and that was assuming he hadn't fled in the night, although Hermione wouldn't have been able to find it within herself to blame him if he had), so she had the next quarter of an hour or so to herself, to think in peace and quiet.

However, Hermione had spent so much time thinking, brooding away inside her head for what must culminate into days of her life if anyone ever took the time to calculate such a thing, that her brain seemed to want nothing more from her than to stare at the vase of soft pink peonies at the center of the table.

Penelope Granger was the first to rise from her bed, coming into the kitchen wearing a mint green nightgown spotted with purple ducks around the hem. She found her daughter at the table, still staring at the peonies with a face absolutely void of expression.

"Hermione, what are you doing?" Penny asked, approaching the table cautiously, as though expecting a violent outburst. "Is everything alright?"

"Hmm? Oh, yes." Hermione's response was almost automatic, Penny could see, and not even a moment later the girl was frowning and shaking her head. "I mean, no. Is dad awake? I need to talk to both of you."

"He'll be up in a minute," said Penelope. "Can it wait, whatever it is? We've got to be at the office in an hour."

"Yes, it can wait, but once you're both dressed will you sit in here with me before you leave?" Hermione asked, and Penny noticed the over-bright quality of her daughter's eyes, as though she was a tick away from crying. "It's very important."

Penelope hesitated, and even as she nodded and started toward the kitchen sink, she looked more than a little uncertain. She looked over her shoulder once again as she heard the chair scrape backward, away from the table.

"I think I'll get dressed as well." Hermione told her. "Please don't go anywhere without talking to me, okay?"

"Okay, sweetheart." Penny said, and she sounded calm, although internally her heartbeat had quickened. Nothing good ever came from a child requesting a sit-down with her parents.

Hermione tried to smile, but she was sure it came out as more of a grimace. She gave it up with a sigh and headed for the staircase, taking them two at a time. When she reached her bedroom, she inched open the door.

For a moment she thought Draco really had left, until she took a few steps closer to her bed and saw that he was simply underneath a heap of bedspread and pillows, only the top of his head peeking out from beneath the covers. She hovered over him for a moment, just to get a good look at him; she'd never seen him sleep before, and he looked so peaceful, it was almost a shame to wake him.

And yet…

Coming the closest to smiling than she probably would for the remainder of the day, she reached forward and pinched his nostrils together with her thumb and forefinger. Within moments Draco's eyes snapped open and he took a great gasp of air, arms flapping feebly under the covers.

When she let go, he looked up at her in alarm, which slowly melted into mild annoyance.

"Blimey, Granger, your sense of humor is all over the place, d'you know that?" He said, propping himself up on his left elbow which meant, thankfully, that his left forearm was still under the covers, because he'd completely forgotten to hide it from her; She might've actually seen his Dark Mark if she'd approached him from the other side of the bed.

However, everything else from his chest up was completely exposed, as he'd apparently foregone the use of a shirt in her bed. She could see the sinewy muscles of his biceps and (for some unidentifiable reason, _this_ was the part that made her blush) his collarbone. She hadn't ever thought of it before, but it made sense that Draco would have a nice body, to match his aristocratic, nearly perfect face. He wasn't bulky or brawny, as she could imagine Cormac McLaggen might be, under all his robes and shrouds of arrogance, but his chest was well-defined, smooth, even… and his arms looked… warm? If that was the right word for it.

"See anything you like, Granger?"

Her eyes snapped up to his, and the flush across her cheeks began to creep down her neck, as she took in the sight of the smirk perched on his lips. She stammered for a moment, before coming to her senses.

"Get out." She said, mouth hanging open slightly.

"Excuse me?"

"I need to get dressed." She explained, feeling stupid. Feeling dumbfounded, even, and for the moment she wasn't thinking about Voldemort or Death Eaters, or even berating herself for not being capable of creating any decent wards around her house to protect her parents. She was thinking of his arms, of his neck and collarbone, completely free of any tightly-buttoned shirt collar. "So, get out."

"Is that really any way to treat a guest?" He remarked, and then he promptly lay back down flat against the mattress, still smirking at her knowingly, as though he could read her every thought.

"Fine, I'll change in the washroom." She said, and although she sounded frustrated, she was far from it. She was… flustered.

But she wouldn't think that, no. That was too reminiscent of one desperately pathetic Pansy Parkinson.

She tromped over to her bureau and pulled out a pair of jeans and a random shirt from one of the many shoved into the bottom drawer, and left the room as quickly as though she had a pack of dogs nipping at her heels.

Once she was gone Draco decided to follow her lead and dress himself as well, and as he buttoned his shirt and pulled on his trousers, he did so with that satisfied smile on his face the entire time, thinking (but only in the back of his mind) that Granger could be more than a little charming when she was embarrassed.

He sat at her desk when he was finished, taking in the view from her window and wondering what sorts of things she'd busied her mind with over the years, sitting in this exact spot. He could picture her pouring over countless obscure books and writing long letters, and within a moment he found himself searching the drawer for something of hers to snoop through.

He came across a leather-bound journal tied shut with an olive green strap, but the moment he hooked his thumb in the carelessly knotted loop to undo it, the door to her bedroom opened once more and she was staring at him with a dull sort of annoyance in her eyes.

"You can't be serious." She said, and before he could do as much as answer, she'd crossed the room and snatched the journal from his hand. "I'll _thank you_ to keep your grubby hands off my property." She punctuated her thanks by whopping him over the head with the book.

"Please, you would do the same if I left you alone with my things," he said, and Hermione didn't bother denying it; hadn't she been on the verge of stealing his Felix Felicis the moment he'd gone to the shower last night?

"Perhaps, but I would have the sense not to be caught." She said, and he could see a hint of smugness in her expression that left him wondering. In a moment, however, she was saying, "Will you come downstairs with me? My parents should be ready to leave soon, and I want to catch them before they start worrying about being late for work."

"I was actually thinking I'd stay up here, and if you need me, you can call me down." He muttered, looking suddenly uncertain. "It doesn't really seem like I'll be a welcome addition to the sort of conversation you're planning to have."

"No, please come with me," she said quickly. "I don't know what kind of help you'll be, really, but I know that if I talk to them alone I'll end up letting them back me into a corner, and I don't want this whole thing to drag out more than it already has."

Draco looked away from her, confusion taking over his mind and muddling all his thoughts; since he'd taken leave of Malfoy Manor in such a hurry and rushed to the aid of Mudblood Granger, he felt as though reality had taken on a rather dreamlike quality. Never in a million years would Draco have pictured himself in this girl's bedroom, let alone trying so hard to get her and her muggle parents to safety… It was all so surreal.

He'd slept in her bed last night, had just been about to snoop through her journal, and was now being persuaded to sit next to her and offer moral support as she gave her parents a stern talking-to. The strangest thing about all of it was that he couldn't find it in himself to doubt his own actions, and yet he felt like he had completely alienated himself from who he really was.

 _Was_ he Draco Malfoy, born from a line of pure magical blood that could be traced back nearly a thousand years? Surely Draco Malfoy would never find himself seated so comfortably at a desk owned by a muggle-born girl he couldn't stand only a few short months ago.

Before he could traverse and further down _that_ rabbit hole, however, he simply exhaled through his nostrils and beckoned warily with his right hand for Granger to lead the way.

She gave him one lingering look of gratitude, which grated unpleasantly against his nerves, and then turned toward the door.

* * *

They waited at the kitchen table for what felt like eons. Granger kept fidgeting nervously next to him, which made _him_ want to fidget, and within moments he didn't know what to do with himself; he wasn't sure where to look or what to do with his hands. One moment he had them folded on his lap, the next he'd brought them up to rest on the table, and the next he was propping his chin in his hand, feeling more unsettled than he ever had in his life, he was sure. It only dawned on him that his foot was tapping rapidly against the carpet when Granger looked over at him with a wan smile on her face.

"Is it possible that you're more nervous than I am?" She said.

"They're _your_ parents," he pointed out sullenly. "There's no reason for you to feel uncomfortable."

"This is an awkward way to meet people," she allowed, and then she was giving him one of her serious looks. "You know, Draco… I really do app-"

"Don't mention it, Granger." He cut her off before she could finish, a muscle in his jaw twitching with tension. "Seriously, don't, or I might change my mind."

She only pursed her lips and looked away, and in a moment Draco could hear two sets of footsteps approaching the kitchen.

His first thought upon seeing her parents was how neat and orderly they looked; her father was wearing a cleanly pressed white shirt with a red and blue striped tie, and her mother wore a pencil skirt and a flowery blouse that made her look like some business tycoon, yet still feminine enough for her to be considered more than reasonably attractive. Hermione took after her mother, he noted, with the delicate set of her jaw and the soft plumpness of her lips, but she had her father's amber eyes and chestnut curls, although his were far more coarse.

Both the Grangers looked astounded to see him there, so much so that it was almost funny.

Her mother's mouth hung slack and she looked between her daughter and Draco wordlessly for several seconds, and her father looked as though he were seeing some sort of river monster occupying a seat at his kitchen table, come to join them for breakfast.

"Mum, dad, this is Draco Malfoy." Hermione said, and Draco couldn't help but note that her voice was tremoring slightly. "He's a… a- a friend, from school. From Hogwarts. He attends H-Hogwarts. Different Houses, though."

"What is this, Hermione?" Her father asked, finally breaking the silence which ensued. "What's going on?"

"Please, sit down." Hermione replied, and Draco could quite literally feel her shaking next to him. "I need to speak with you both."

Penelope Granger's hand flew to her mouth and she gasped as she cast a wild look at her husband. "Oh God, Doug, she's pregnant."

Draco nearly snorted, it was all too rich. Just when he thought things couldn't _possibly_ get more awkward.

"No! No, mum, I'm not pregnant." Hermione cried, as Draco said, "Fat chance!"

Douglas Granger seemed to only hear Draco, however, as he turned his sudden wrath fully upon him.

"Think this is funny, do you?" He said, his mouth working into a thin, angry line. "You come into _my house_ in such a way, and think you can crack jokes, eh?"

"DAD! Sit _down,_ please!" Hermione said, standing up to get his attention. "Draco and I are not involved in any way. He's a friend, nothing more."

"Sweetheart, what on Earth is happening?" Her mother moved forward and took a seat immediately, and although Hermione could sense she was relieved, she could also tell it was only partially. By now her mother would have been a fool not to know something was very wrong. "You aren't pregnant, fine. So tell us what this is all about."

"Yes, on with it, Hermione." Her father said, and he sat next to his wife, although his gaze was still fixed on Draco with the smallest vestige of leftover anger. "Your mother and I have got to be off soon."

"Well, I don't exactly know how to say this, so I'm just going to… spit it out, I suppose." Yet for several long, torturous moments, she was unable to bring forth any words at all.

Draco swiveled his head over to look at her expectantly, but her eyes were fixed upon the surface of the table, positively glazed with panic. Without much thought, he reached over and placed his hand on her shoulder, drawing her attention to him. He nodded at her silently, and after only the briefest of pauses, she nodded in return.

"Do you remember everything I told you about my friend, Harry Potter?" She asked, now turning back to her parents.

"He's… a celebrity, in your world." Said her father, looking beyond confused.

"He survived some sort of Killing Curse, was it?" Her mother asked, and Hermione nodded.

"When he was a year old, a Dark wizard who called himself Lord Voldemort murdered his parents and tried to kill Harry, too. But the curse rebounded, and everyone thought the backlash destroyed him." Hermione said, and now that she was getting into the meat of the explanation, her words were coming more evenly. "Well, at the end of our fourth year, Voldemort returned."

She looked between her mother and her father, hoping somehow that they would fill in the gaps for themselves. When they only continued to look at her blankly, she took a hard swallow and launched into the full story.

She told them everything; she told them about the Death Eaters at the Quidditch World Cup, the outcome of the Triwizard Tournament; she told them about Voldemort hiding his return for a full year, before accidentally revealing himself during the battle at the Department of Mysteries, how Dumbledore had reformed the Order of the Phoenix, and how at this very moment, a fairly quiet war was being waged right under their noses.

"It won't stay quiet forever," she was saying, refusing to meet her parents' eyes now as she could feel the mounting fear radiating from them. "The Death Eaters have been keeping things under the radar for the most part, but they are acting. They've abducted many Ministry officials and common witches and wizards who might have any information they can use against the Order. They're threatening families into service with threats of harm and death, using any technique possible to garner followers and root out knowledge or weapons."

She would have gone on, would have plunged into the more gritty details, but her father held up a hand to silence her.

"You say this has been going on since the end of your fourth year?" he asked, and Hermione nodded, already anticipating what he would say next. " _Why_ is this the first we are hearing of it, Hermione?"

"I didn't want you to be scared." She said hoarsely. She realized only now that tears had started brimming in her eyes. "I thought if you knew everything – if you knew how involved I am in all of it – that you would pull me out of Hogwarts. Then, as time went on and more things started happening, I thought you would be angry with me for keeping you in the dark. The truth is I never wanted you to know anything. I would rather you'd never learnt a thing about it, until the war was over and everything was alright again."

"This is very serious, Hermione," Doug said, feeling as though his stomach had just leaked through his toes. "How could you _possibly_ think keeping us in the dark was the right thing to do?"

"Honey, you should have told us the moment all this started." Penelope said, far more gently.

"I thought you wouldn't let me go back to Hogwarts. I thought you would forbid me from seeing Harry, or any of my other friends again." Hermione whispered, and she started violently as her father pounded his fist against the table.

"Of _course_ we wouldn't have let you go back!" He roared, and Hermione flinched again. "You could have been killed at any time, and your mother and I would have had no idea why it had happened! Is that what you were hoping for, Hermione? That you would be _murdered_ by some psychopath fanatic, and your mother and I would learn of it in a blasted letter from your school?"

"No, obviously I didn't want that!" Hermione cried, surprised at the sudden anger she felt. "I hated hiding anything from either of you! I never wanted to hurt you, or make you angry. But I also didn't want you to cut me off from my world!"

"Your _world?"_ Her father cried, incredulousness drenching his voice. "And what sort of world is it, exactly? The sort where young girls are infiltrating some blasted ministry and being attacked by a pack of rabid men in cloaks? Where people are carted off and tortured for information?"

"You act as if the same things don't happen in the muggle world!" Hermione shouted, her tears all but gone. Now she could feel red heat creeping up her neck and setting her ears aflame. "Wars are fought in every version of this Earth, dad, I can't help that this one happens to involve me!"

"You can help it, Hermione Granger, and you will." Her father's voice had taken on a note of authority, the same sort of tone he'd used over the years whenever Hermione had toed over the line (which hadn't been very often, but you get the picture). "I gather that the reason for your choosing to finally enlighten us is so that you might convince us to go into hiding, yes?"

"Yes," Hermione said, her chin set. "That's why Draco is here. His family is involved with the Death Eaters – don't look at him like that, dad, he isn't a part of it – and he came to warn me that they'll be coming for you."

"Because you're friends with that Potter boy."

"Yes."

"Right. Well. You're coming with us, then."

"I can't do that."

His eyes had narrowed into slits. "You will. I don't want another word about it from you."

Hermione looked to her mother, always the more reasonable of the two.

"Mum," she pleaded. "I can't go, I've got a responsibility to Harry, to Dumbledore – to everyone! I can't leave them all behind at a time like this, it isn't right."

"Do you even understand what you're asking of us, Hermione?" Her mother asked, her expression one of fright, sadness, and even a little anger all at the same time. "You actually expect _us_ to just leave everything behind? Our house, our practice, our livelihood, and our _daughter?_ You're sixteen years old, Hermione. You have no business being affiliated with this war at all. We sent you to Hogwarts to learn, not to get embroiled in extremist war. Your father is right, you're coming with us. You're still underage, and therefore you are still our responsibility."

"Things are different in the wizarding world, mum, _especially_ when there's a war going on. People age faster at times like these and in a world like mine. I'm old enough to make my own decisions, and frankly, I have been for a long time. I'm not some hormonal teenager who wants to move into a flat with her boyfriend instead of going to college." Hermione said, fighting to keep her voice even. "I know you may not be able to understand, but I've been a part of this since that first day you said goodbye to me at platform 9 ¾, since I became friends with Harry. I've traveled through time to save a man's life and I've battled Death Eaters with only five of my friends, and guess what? I've lived through it all! I'm not a little girl anymore, and I can't turn my back on my friends. I won't do it, and you shouldn't ask me to."

She looked at her father, who was now staring at Draco with the nastiest expression she'd ever seen on his face. Draco, for his part, was refusing to look at anyone, and instead had his eyes fixed on the ceiling above them, his mouth puckered into an expression which conveyed discomfort of the acutest kind. She didn't even have the space to feel sorry for him, however.

"I _know_ what I'm asking is a lot, trust me. I know you both love me, and I'm sure I'll never understand what sort of love that is until I have a child of my own. I know that I'm asking you to go against the instincts you've had to protect me since I was born, but you'll have to do it eventually." She took a deep breath, frankly just relieved that they were actually allowing her to speak, but somehow knowing that she might as well have been talking to a couple of stuffed dolls. "I want to do what I can to save the people I love, to save the _world_ I love. Because I do – love my world, I mean. I will never fit into the muggle world, and I would never want to after seeing what life could be like for me. Besides that, if the Order can't succeed, if Harry doesn't succeed and destroy Voldemort for good, none of us will ever be safe. No matter where we go, Voldemort's influence will spread like poison. Don't you _see_ that?"

The room was silent for a full minute, not a sound to be heard besides the steady dripping of the leaky faucet over the sink.

Then Doug looked at his daughter, his expression stony and closed. Outwardly he knew he appeared much more angry with her than he really was; in truth he was angry at himself and angry at Penelope for having been so blind. He had been so far from expecting this sort of conversation, from expecting that his little girl had come so close to death as many times as she had in the last two or so years, and all of it had happened while he'd been here at home, drinking tea and fitting braces, taking his wife out for the occasional night on the town and watching countless, pointless television shows. He might as well have spent all this time in a cave, scratching his arse and belching every ten seconds for all the value he had had as a father.

"I want you to go upstairs and pack your bags right now, Hermione. And you," he turned to Draco, feeling antipathy rising like bile in his throat. "I want you to leave. You've done what you came to do. You've warned us, and we thank you for it, but I would feel better if you didn't know where we're going."

"I'm not going with you, dad. I'm going to the Burrow, I'll be with Ron's parents, and I'll be safe." Hermione said, and once again Douglas slammed his fist against the table; the vase of peonies trembled threateningly, but Hermione had expected at least one more outburst.

"Damn it, Hermione Granger, _do as I say_!" He shouted. "Or so help me, I will drag you to the car and pack your things myself!"

Draco stood up, pointed his wand at Douglas Granger with gritted teeth and muttered, " _stupefy."_

Penelope had time to scream in alarm as her husband slumped forward in his chair, before Draco turned his wand on her and hit her with another Stunning spell, and then it was over.

Hermione's hand darted to her mouth as she rose from her seat and ran around the table to her parents. She cast her wide-eyed stare at Draco, unable to formulate any words whatsoever.

"That went well," he said grimly, pocketing his wand. "Don't gawk, Granger, it isn't as if I hurt them."

"You Stunned my _parents_!" She cried, finding her voice.

"And you should thank me." He said, although his expression was solemn, as though he hadn't liked doing it any more than she'd liked seeing it. "I've just saved you about three bloody hours of pointless screaming matches. Your father's got a temper on him."

"You can't just go around and Stun people, Draco!" She shouted, bending over her father and checking his pulse as though expecting to find him dead.

"We haven't got any time to spare, Granger, or have you forgotten that you've got a target on your back already?" He said, far more calmly than she felt. "How else did you picture this ending? Did you think your mummy and daddy would suddenly come to their senses and give you their blessing to gallop off into the sunset to vanquish your enemies?"

"I don't know!" She ran both hands through her hair, looking as though she'd have liked nothing more than to tear it all out from her scalp. "I don't know what I'm doing! I have no idea what I'm _going_ to do."

"It's simple, really." Draco said, and he moved around the other side of the table, looking down at her father with an unreadable expression on his face. "We'll have to modify their memories. When they wake up they'll have plans to go somewhere safe."

She stared at him with an almost desperate expression. "Do you mean they'll have to… forget me?" Her voice was so small that it was hard to look at her.

"If they don't, they'll come back for you, and this whole sodding scene will start all over again." Draco said, unable to quash the harsh tone in his voice. "Have you got a better idea?"

"I just… didn't think it would come to this." She said, and once again she felt her eyes stinging, threatening more tears. If there was one thing Hermione Granger was sick unto death with, it was crying. She sucked in a breath and held it for a long time, feeling the pressure build up in her lungs. "I hate this." She whispered.

"When this is all over, you can find them again." Draco said flatly. He couldn't stand the stark aura of sadness that was practically saturating the air around her; he could have gagged on it, the taste was so familiar. "Put it in their heads to leave town tonight. They were only here on holiday, this house was rented, and they're going to settle in… I don't know, Bali or Australia. I imagine they've got the funds?"

Hermione nodded, her eyes closed so tightly white stars had started to bloom behind her lids.

"Do you want to do it, or shall I?" He asked, speaking quietly now. He couldn't have said why, but he felt as though he was in the act of betraying her.

"You do it." She said, her lips hardly moving.

Without another word she turned away from the sight of her unconscious parents, knowing that this was the last time she would look upon them as their daughter for a very long time, and made for her bedroom before she could change her mind; she didn't want to watch it happen, didn't want to see those memories be taken from them.

Draco watched her go, staring after her long after she'd disappeared into the little alcove that housed the base of the staircase, knowing that in that moment she hated him just a little bit. But really, he was doing her a massive kindness, and he knew she was aware of that as well, underneath it all.

After a long moment he sighed deeply, and slid his wand back out of his pocket, turning it for the second time upon Douglas Granger.

" _Obliviate."_

* * *

 _ **Author's Note:**_

And here most of you were thinking Hermione would actually steal the potion! Please, haha. After all that's happened? You people need to have a little more faith ;)

I actually feel a little proud of this chapter. I think I managed to put just the right amount of tension into the whole will she/won't she area, regarding the Felix Felicis, which is exactly what I wanted. It's amazing, in my opinion, when the reader is questioning something as highly as the actual character is! Really allows for a more enthralling read, if you ask me (which, none of you did, but I'm telling you anyway).

As you can hopefully see, Draco is starting to just throw caution to the wind when it comes to Hermione, which means... (drum roll please)... the feels shall ensue!

Thank you for all the lovely reviews. I was literally chortling to myself the whole time I read some of them that questioned what Hermione would do about Harry's request. Only one of you cottoned on to the possibility that Draco might lose the potion in another way, but even then, who's to say he loses it at all? It's my job to keep you guessing, after all.

As for those of you who think she gave in a little too easily, perhaps she did. But Hermione's character is very pliable when it comes to the people she loves, and Harry is her best friend, not to mention the fact that she hasn't really spoken with Harry since Slughorn's party, and she's still got plenty to say (I mean, it's HERMIONE we're talking about here, she's ALWAYS got plenty to say). Plus, she did promise Dumbledore that she would be open to Harry if he wanted to make amends, and at times like this, there are more important things than harboring hurt feelings.

Stay tuned for more, you wonderful readers! And, as always, keep me in the loop about your thoughts and feelings. Believe it or not, hearing from you guys truly is encouragement to keep writing. You make it fun! I love how interactive this sight is, I feel like I really connect with all of you.

Yours Truly,

Emma Perry.


	16. Learning the Art of Caring

Chapter Sixteen –

Some people may say that the ability to feel empathy is an inherent gift to all mankind; even certain animals act upon the instinct to nurture the sick or dying of their own kind, sometimes even the instinct to care for something that is _not_ of their kind. Human beings are moved by the sufferings of one another all over the globe, providing food for the homeless or simply being a shoulder to cry on for a dear friend, that much is true; a pack of wolves look after each other in the same way, licking the wounds of their hurt pack mates and howling in grief if one of their own fade into death.

Those same people may also say that morals are universal, that every man has in his breast a set of guidelines tattooed upon his heart, given to him by God or the universe or by the great, good programming of any force by another name. Perhaps they say that morals _are_ instinct, that empathy is an automatic response the human brain has toward the sights of strife around them, and in more ways than one, that is the logical way of thinking about it; as emotional and tumultuous as the lives we lead are, if empathy did not exist - if brothers could not relate to one another through grief, or sorrow, or pain - then we might all combust with all the bottled sentiments and angers, for who would we have to share them with? A society such as that would have no way to truly flourish, unless every human being was void of emotion altogether, and ruled themselves with logic. But that is not the way with our world.

It is more than safe to say that empathy is something we are all _capable_ of exercising, but is it necessarily _inherent?_ Is the moral compass embedded upon every heart?

Things can get a little dicey when one travels down this particular philosophical road, sure, but the distinction between the inherence of the _gift_ of empathy and the capability of exercising it is easy to see with a little practice; a child born to an affluent family, for instance – a child who has been given everything they could ever wish for and never had anything taken away – a child who has never known true friendship and therefore never utilized the "gift" of common feeling – must still possess some _capability_ of empathy, otherwise one should consider a child like that a sociopath. But is it effortless for that child, even with that potential, to harness on quickly to the thoughts and feelings of those around them?

No.

How could it be?

God (or whatever name for whatever force one believes in) does not give "gifts" in the strict sense of the word. He gives us seeds to plant and to sow, He gives us tools to sharpen and the instincts to know how to use them. Empathy is one such tool, and while everyone has the starter-kit (or, most of us, anyway) it is up to us, and those who raise us, to provide the effort to make it thrive. Some people are born with it naturally, of course. Some people feel empathy so strongly that watching the evening news can quite literally cause digestive issues from stress, but the majority of us are not so humanely wired from the start.

Draco Malfoy was no sociopath, but never had he been able to call any one person a true friend, and he had never exactly put much back into seeking such a privilege. All that he asked for, he received; and nothing, for fifteen years of his life, had ever been taken away from him. His mother and father were the embodiment of the Malfoy legacy, the Black legacy, and they had always seemed so immovable, influential, and powerful. He'd had his share of suffering, that cannot be denied; Lucius was a heavy-handed father, prone to anger and with the propensity toward disdain for any sentiments or behaviour that went against his own wiring. And, as Draco had been unfortunate enough as to have disappointed his father on countless occasions (not always with the understanding of what, exactly, he had done to let Lucius down in the first place), Malfoy Manor was not always as peaceful as Narcissa's beloved gardens seemed to boast.

However, internal sufferings do not make for automatic empathy when one has no sense of relating to another person besides himself, and therein was Draco's most prominent pitfall; that was, perhaps, what made him such an angry, malicious person. He had always believed his trials were unique unto himself, and he would scoff at those who pretended to know their like.

In other words, Draco Malfoy was a narcissist.

Only last year, Lucius Malfoy had been carted off to Azkaban, probably to await the same fate as his sister-in-law, Bellatrix Lestrange – otherwise known as the Mad Dog of the family. And because of that, Draco had lost every dredge of respect his family name had cultivated for him over the years, and worse, he now had that memory of his mother, a mere week after Lucius had been sentenced, holding his face in her hands, whispering, "they will come for you, Draco."

In a very deep, very essential way, Draco had lost his mother that day, simply because he now lived every moment with a certainty that she would be taken some time, over one thing or another. Narcissa was still alive, of course. She still occupied the Manor and still most likely took her tea in the sitting room of the East wing, but Draco had already said his goodbyes; it was only a matter of time.

Perhaps this was why Granger's sadness affected him so. It couldn't have anything to do with her, as he'd so often assured himself; it was simply that she had been in the right place at the right time… Her path had crossed his so aggressively these past few months, as he was at his lowest point - as he was, quite literally, muddling through a personal crisis of sorts. Now that he had lost the only two people in the world he could honestly claim to love (and yes, Draco did love Lucius, in what small way he could – he knew that now), he had to admit that Granger _must_ feel what he himself had felt – _was_ feeling. In fact, she probably felt his pain more similarly than she might have if her parents had been outright killed, rather than forced to forget about her completely, because they were still within arm's reach, and yet leagues under the sea from her. They were there, but they weren't; they were alive, but they were dead.

Everything was as uncertain for her in all this inevitability as it was for him.

However, no matter what the reason behind it could possibly have _really_ been (because after all, every one of these musings he had could just be considered conjecture, brought on by the onslaught of such lachrymose circumstances), Draco found himself to be in a very existential state of mind, as he stood in Granger's doorway, looking at her with such concentration on his face.

She was lying on her bed, faced away from him, probably staring out the window over her desk, and he knew that she had heard him come upstairs. He knew that she was probably thinking of what he'd done, how he'd snubbed out her parent's memories of her existence from their minds as easily as one might clear the scratched image from an Etch-a-Sketch. And although she appeared to be nearly catatonic, refusing to answer any one of his calls for her attention, he had decided enough was enough. She would literally have to suck it up.

"Granger," he said again, giving it one last college try, yet still she said nothing, hadn't even moved.

Draco stepped into the room and around the foot of the bed so that he could look down on her properly, but the moment he was standing over her, she'd turned her face into her pillow, hiding from him.

"We have to leave, Granger." He said, refusing even the slightest of gentle notes in his voice. He couldn't stomach the self-doubt that would surely ensue if he tried to treat her kindly, although somewhere in the corners of his mind, he knew he would have preferred to. "They'll be awake soon enough, and confused, I'm sure, if they happen to find you up here."

Not a word from her.

"Not that they'll even come up here, I imagine," he added, simply for the sake of keeping away the silence that threatened to swallow them up. "They'll pack their things and be on with it, most likely. But still, we haven't any time to lose, and it's best to play it safe."

She kept her face hidden in her pillow, and he wondered briefly if she would ever come up for air.

"You can dawdle all you like at the train station, but you've got to get out of this house."

He actually gritted his teeth this time, when he received no answer; it was hard to keep his resolve to see her to the station when she was being so difficult.

Instead of standing their like the idiot he felt himself slowly morphing into, he strode to the cupboard by the bookcase he'd admired last night and pulled out her trunk. He opened it up and let it fall flat onto the floor, and then he went to her bureau to pick out clothes at random, careful to avoid anything that looked like the knicker-drawer.

He was in the process of balling up a hot pink vest and tossing it carelessly into the trunk (a tacky thing which Hermione hadn't put on even once since her Great Aunt Gailes sent it to her for her fourteenth birthday, but Draco didn't know that; all he saw were clothes) when a thought occurred to him and he went over to her desk and pulled her journal out from the drawer he'd found it in whilst snooping little less than an hour ago, figuring she might need it. Underneath it was a letter addressed to Potter, and he threw that in as well. And then, just for the hell of it, he ducked next to her bed and pawed beneath the dust ruffle around the area he'd sat last night, feeling for a leather-bound book thick enough to be the third installment of Gloom over Marbeck. It must have been her favorite; by the state of its pages it seemed as though Granger had thumbed through it quite a few times.

As he came up, book in hand, he noticed right away that she was looking at him.

He held the book up, asking wordlessly, and she nodded. He craned around and tossed it into her open trunk, and then finally, she spoke.

"Where did you send them?" Her voice was hoarse, as though she hadn't used it in weeks, but he could see, with no small degree of relief, that she had not been crying. He wasn't quite sure what he would do if she started in on _that_ business.

"Australia," He immediately replied. "They'll be known as Monica and Wendell Wilkins, travelers of the world who are ready to settle somewhere warm."

"They hate the warmth. They practically consider Ryde to be tropical."

"Perhaps _you_ should have given them somewhere to go, then," he remarked dryly, realizing now just how frustrated he was. He felt a muscle in his jaw twitch, and then he was adding, "Penelope and Doug Granger might hate the warmth, but Monica and Wendell are tired of all the gloom. At least you'll know where they'll be, and what they'll be going by. Really, that's the best you can hope for in this situation. So get up and get packed, or all of this will have been for nothing."

She gazed at him for a long time, and with some mortification Draco saw that her lower lip gave the slightest of trembles.

"I don't want to leave them," she whispered, and Draco looked away from her, swallowing hard.

"No, I don't suppose you do," He allowed. "But you've got to. And I've got things I need to take care of, so if you wouldn't mind…"

Draco expected some sort of angry outburst from her at being prodded along in such a way, but she only nodded tightly and rose from her bed. He got to his feet to move out of her way as she walked past him, making her rounds around the room for all the things she'd probably only unpacked the previous night.

He tried not to notice how many things she took from her trunk that he'd packed.

"I reckon I'll be saying goodbye to all my books," she said. "I can't take them with me, and I can't imagine what's going to happen to the house once my parents are gone."

"Do they own it?" he asked, and she silently affirmed. "Right, well then it'll be right here when you all return, I expect. And unless the muggles in this town are looters and thieves, so will your scattered library."

As they left the house, each carrying their own luggage, Draco averted his eyes as he noticed Granger take one last look at her home. They set out from her front stoop with a certain sadness hanging about them; Draco was thinking of his mother, of what she must be feeling right about now, how angry or scared she might be. He also couldn't stop imagining what sort of backlash he'd caused for her; Bellatrix, who had been across from her sister when Mary the housekeeper announced his arrival, had to have hounded Narcissa to hell and back with questions about where he could be, and so on.

Hermione was thinking of her mother as well, and of her father, knowing that they would soon wake up, completely happy and fine, without any idea who she was. She wished, more than anything, that she had been able to convince them to go to Seattle without her. At least that way, she would know exactly where they were, and she could find some comfort in knowing that she was missed, as selfish as that was.

She didn't bother suggesting to Draco that they catch a cab; she wasn't all that convinced that he would frown upon the idea, but she wasn't in the mood to trifle with his delicate temperament toward all things muggle. In fact, she wasn't so inclined to talk to him at all, because every time she looked at him she couldn't help but blame him; she couldn't help but picture the way he'd Stunned her father, the man she'd spent her whole life revering, and then her mother, the woman who commanded respect with such nurturing grace. Her _parents._ He'd Stunned her parents, without so much as a _beg your pardon,_ and the way they'd slumped over onto the table seemed to play over and over again in her mind's eye.

It was unreasonable, she knew. Hermione was more than aware that she was simply latching onto the chance to point the finger at him, if only to have some sort of explanation for why things had ended up in such turmoil. And, even though each time these thoughts crossed her mind she was forced to remind herself that she had practically begged him to stay, it was all so tough to swallow.

"Where is there to eat?" Draco asked, some fifteen minutes after her neighbourhood had vanished behind them.

"Nowhere near enough to the station is open at the moment." She said. "And I'm not walking three quarters of an hour out of my way to get to a McDonald's."

"We've got a long walk as it is, and we should eat."

"Does the Pure-blood need to be fed?" She asked, smiling without humor. When he didn't even bother looking at her she rolled her eyes and added, "You can find something at the station, I'm sure."

He simply shrugged, and from then on they walked in silence. They both felt as though they were on auto-pilot, so that by the time they made it to the station, they'd hardly felt the walk, although it had lasted more than an hour. Once inside the station, they went to stand in line to see a clerk at the ticket booth, still in silence, though it was far less formidable than the silence they'd walked through on the streets; there were more people in the Esplanade railway station than Draco had seen at one time all across the town last night.

Muggles were greeting each other at every turn, and saying goodbye to one another at every bend. They flittered to and fro with rolling suitcases or briefcases or duffel bags, buying tickets, looking for their boarding or headed for the exit, all of them with their own destination, all of them probably already sick of traveling, whether their journey was over and done with or just beginning.

Granger's first move would be to take a train to London and catch a shuttle to Bristol, and from there she would head to Devon. From what she'd told him, the Weasley's lived on the outskirts of Ottery St. Catchpole, and while the trip would be arduous, and probably span over the course of a full day, he reckoned she probably needed that time to be alone. If she was anything like him, which he was beginning to suspect lately that she just might be, the solidarity would do her well.

He watched as she passed her muggle money to the clerk on the other side of the glass with trembling hands. She turned to him then, as the man worked through the transaction.

"Where'll you be headed?" she asked, though from her tone she sounded as though she couldn't have cared less, an observation which quite frankly, put Draco's indignation kicking into gear.

He answered her anyway, completely unwilling to start an argument.

"Back to Hogwarts." He said, shrugging. "I'll take a train and then Apparate to Hogsmeade."

She simply took the ticket from the little metal slot in the glass the clerk slid it through and turned away.

"You can go do what you need to do. I'll be fine," she said.

But even as she walked toward a row of benches she could feel him following her, and all she wanted was to turn around and demand to be left alone.

"How long will you wait?" He asked.

"The next train is scheduled at noon," she said.

"Then you should go ahead and get something to eat."

"I don't need anything to eat," she said, and he really did give it his all to ignore the way she snapped at him. He hadn't seen her eat anything since he'd popped into her bedroom the night before, and it wouldn't do for her to pass out in the station alone.

"Yes, you do."

" _No,_ I don't." She said. "I'll eat on the train. I've got to make the money I have left last long enough to get to the Burrow, don't I?"

Draco sighed, digging through his pockets to produce a roll of notes. He pulled a ten from it and held it out to her, his expression impassive.

"I wasn't asking you for handouts." She said, feeling her colour rise a little.

"It isn't a handout, I expect you to pay me back." He said flatly, and then he gave the bill a little shake. "Besides, I have more than I'll ever use, and I doubt I'll go through the trouble of having it converted back to real money. One trip to London was enough this time round."

"Would you please just give it a rest?" She said through gritted teeth, and Draco's eyebrows rose.

"Excuse me?"

"I'm not some pathetic child who needs looking after. I can make my own way."

"Why've you got to be so bloody _difficult_ over the silliest of things?" He said, which only fanned her flames.

"I'm not being difficult," she replied stubbornly, and as she got rolling into one of her tempers Draco's hand began to clench into a fist around the money he still held out to her, crumpling it at the middle. "I simply don't want to be treated like some commoner who can't afford her own food. I can take care of myself."

"You can't seriously be this angry at me." He said frankly, wanting to get to the quick of what had made her lash out. His patience had officially taken its last breath. "Obviously you wouldn't be able to understand everything I've gone through to get you here, but d'you think you could at least refrain from making me regret it?"

"I never asked you to do anything for me," she bit out, folding her arms across her chest, and as Draco saw that movement he had to resist the urge to throttle her; arms crossed over her chest meant that Granger was digging in her heels for battle, and at this point in time, he was not having it.

"And you're the one who constantly spews on about how childish _I_ am? What were those wise words you once had for me? ' _The point of kindness is that one shouldn't need to file a request for it,'_ " He sneered, the pitch of his voice ridiculously high as he mocked her. "You're being foolish, and I've got no time for it. I've had it up to _here_ with you," he lifted the hand which held the ten pound note up to his forehead, the look in his eye becoming more harassed by the second. "And one would think that you'd at least be a little bloody grateful."

"Grateful?" She cried in exasperation. "For what? The fact that you've wiped my parent's memories, or that you're now acting as though I'm some kind of pauper!"

"Sodding _women,_ " Draco hissed aloud to himself, and then he was addressing her once more. "I did what had to be done, Hermione! Obviously you weren't going to do it, and in case you've forgotten, you've got a pack of Death Eaters on your heels. You should be _grateful_ that I saved your ridiculous life, and your muggle parents! You should be _thanking_ me, actually, but instead all you're doing is starting arguments over _literally_ the stupidest things anyone could be angry over. _Take_ the damn money!"

And she did.

It was amazing, really, how quickly she deflated; even she was astounded at herself, for the complete one-eighty. Perhaps it was because she was simply ready to admit that he was right, but really, she was well aware that all her anger had dissipated the moment he used her name. He obviously hadn't noticed, and she would never point it out to him because, truthfully, it was a little humiliating how much that simple thing affected her, but at that moment she was reminded once again that he had done all of this _for_ her, rather than _to_ her. And instead of blaming him, all that really wandered through her head now was the question of why he had done it.

She knew she couldn't ask him, though. Or, at least, she couldn't ask him and expect an actual answer, so instead, she did the only thing she wanted to do.

As she was setting her trunk at her feet in front of his, he should have known what was coming, but it still took him aback as she stepped closer to him, and wrapped her arms around his neck.

She had to step up on her toes to reach him properly, but he could feel her heart pressed against his own, and he felt the heat in his neck rise to his ears as she settled her chin over his shoulder. The clean, soft scent of her hair accosted him, and all it served was to wipe his mind completely blank of any thoughts.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, the sound of her voice sailing over his shoulder. She held her eyes shut tight, simply taking a moment to enjoy the contact with another person who understood the sort of pain she was feeling, and honestly she was surprised that he had yet to tear himself away.

And the surprises kept rolling in as she felt his hand settle on her back.

"S'alright," he muttered against her hair.

His movement made her hold him tighter, out of nowhere feeling as though she owed him everything, and wishing that she could somehow save him in return from all the things he was sure to face for helping her – and wanting to believe that feeling her in such a way wasn't deplorable to him. She hadn't even known that she'd wanted to be so close to him, but now that she was, she couldn't deny that one, simple truth. She'd wanted this closeness even as she lay in her bed with her face in her pillow, ignoring him as he packed her things. It didn't even seem to matter to her that this was _Draco Malfoy_ she was holding onto, that he had been the first person who'd ever called her a mudblood, or that he had spent five consecutive years torturing her and her friends.

Right now, he was the one who'd stepped in and saved her, actually _saved_ her life.

Draco, for his part, simply allowed her to hug him, knowing somehow that it was the final thing she needed to be okay, not even hating himself for feeling the need to provide that for her; plus, as far as apologies went, this one was nothing to sneeze at. He had come this far for her, what was the sense in pretending at the moment? He could always pretend as though it hadn't happened afterward, the same way he'd pretended that he hadn't comforted her outside the library that day she broke down in front of him. If anything, part of him suspected that he had needed to see her, needed to help her, and needed to hold her, simply because he could not seem to help himself, and empathy for Granger was the one thing, pure and solid, that he had to grasp on to.

He was terrified, yet he was far from it. He felt angry and traitorous, and yet this was the closest to liberation that he'd felt all his life.

He brought his other arm up and around her waist, for some reason picturing her at that party with Cormac McLaggen, probably dancing this close to him, feeling _his_ arms around her waist instead of Draco's, and it filled him with the strangest sense of triumph knowing that McLaggen was probably sipping exotic drinks at some magical beach house with his family while Draco was here; and finally, he couldn't help but wonder how much less complex and weighted down this moment would feel if the two of them were simply a pair of random muggles amongst the crowds that jostled around them, simply saying goodbye until they saw each other again.

"Thank you, Draco." She murmured. "I won't ever forget this."

The moment was over, extinguishing like the guttering flame of a wasted match as she released him, her arms snaking from around his neck, her feet stepping backward and away from him. His own arms hung limply at his sides, and now that they were through with it, he found it impossible to keep eye-contact with her.

"Like I said, don't mention it." He said, and then he was bending to pick his trunk up, adding gruffly, "You'll be alright, then."

"Yes, I'll be alright."

And then he was gone.

He'd turned away from her and started toward one of the kiosks, not looking back even once, already pretending to forget.

* * *

Molly Weasley held a hand to her son's forehead, a critical purse to her lips; her hand only came away to swat the boy over the shoulder.

"Get on with it Fred, you will not be fooling me today." She scolded, although secretly she was relieved that he had not gone as far as using one of those _sickness_ _sweets,_ as she had dubbed them. They had silly little names, catchy names that people seemed to like, but the only thing Molly had ever put much curiosity into was whether or not the things were selling, which they were. Of course, that didn't mean that she would welcome those little brightly coloured time bombs under her roof, a fact which Fred had very conveniently let slip his mind when he'd given himself a roaring nosebleed to get out of beating the carpets only the previous night.

"Remind me again why I can't just do it the old-fashioned way," Fred quipped, dropping the sallow expression from his face and straightening out of his feigned slump. "I've yet to ever spy you wash the linens without your wand."

"When I was your age, my parents restricted magic for chores, and for good reason," Molly explained. "You've got to learn the value of hard work. Not that folding a basket of sheets can _really_ be considered hard work, but there you have it."

When he opened his mouth to reply, she raised her eyebrows at him, her eyes widening with that look every Weasley child had come to know and fear. Truth be told, it was Fred and George she'd mastered it on.

Finally he relented, as they always did, and flopped to his feet in a way that was more prepubescent than grown adult, and as he exited the kitchen Molly called after him, "And tell your brothers to bring me _all_ of their socks! There's no way I've only got three pair from the lot of you, and if I don't have a reasonable amount in the washroom in ten minutes, I'm searching trunks!" She had to keep raising her voice so that Fred would hear, as he'd only kept walking toward the stair, and by the end of her warning she was booming.

She sat down heavily in the seat Fred had vacated so sluggishly, blowing a fatigued breath from deep within her lungs. Surely she had aged at least a decade, these past two years. How else could she explain the creak in her knees and the soreness of her feet? The way she never seemed to get enough sleep, and yet was always unable to escape into dream land until hours after she'd settled into bed? Arthur would have called it fear, if he'd really known how she felt. She couldn't stand the thought of _that_ though – of her husband knowing how deeply her fear actually ran.

She would never forget the boggart in the drawing desk.

Sometimes, just as she was beginning to fall into semi-consciousness, she would hear that quick rattle the cabinet had made as she neared it that night over a year ago, wand in hand. Memory had given it a spine-chilling note, and she'd wrench from sleep as though someone had stood over her and screamed in her face.

She had been so confident that night, had thought that she would see the same thing she'd seen during the three previous encounters with boggarts: the splintered marionette doll her mother had kept in a glass case in the attic of their house, the doll that had given her nightmares as a child when she'd snuck into the attic to get a peek at her Christmas presents. Instead she had seen the very real death of everyone she loved.

It was a little strange to admit, even a little embarrassing in its naiveté, but the first clear thought she'd had after all the shock had worn off was that she hadn't known boggarts could be so… nasty. Perhaps because she had never known what true fear was like until she'd had children and grown into one person with Arthur, but to her, it seemed that boggarts were even more base and vile creatures than she had ever considered them. It wasn't playing fair, to use a mother's love against a person.

But the worst part about all of it was the reaction Arthur had to _her_ reaction; he hadn't known how to comfort her, or reassure her. Truly the death of loved ones was more inevitable than impossible, considering what the circumstances had been, and still were. What could he have said to make her feel safe? So he'd simply gone to that tight-lipped, grim sort of place that Arthur rarely visited, and it was the memory of that which made her resolve to keep herself together. If she happened to take a few more glances than usual at the family clock in the other room, then so be it; she couldn't necessarily help that, it was like a tick of sorts. After Ron and Ginny had gone traipsing over to the Ministry all those months back, she found it nearly impossible to walk past the thing without checking to see if either of their hands was pointed to ' _traveling_ '.

Other than that though, she made sure that things were business-as-usual around the Burrow; she tended her flowers and cleaned the floors, made the meals and fed the pigs, kissed Arthur when he came home and made his herbal tea before bed. She smiled a little less, but she still smiled. She laughed too, and she could honestly say she did so often enough. Arthur had a way of bringing sunshine to anything.

She wondered when he would be coming home tonight, as he had so often worked late, a fact which hadn't changed even this close to the holidays. She had baked salmon plated and waiting for him, ready to be reheated the moment he stepped through the door, the only problem was that with the way his schedule had been lately, that moment could possibly be hours away.

At least she had the children, though. They made everything appear normal, with all their dirty laundry and loud, sudden quarrels. Managing them distracted her, gave her excuses to play a role; while Ron and Ginny were at school, Fred and George in their flat in Diagon Alley, and Percy no longer speaking to the family, Molly had the days very much to herself, until Arthur came home. It used to be that she would cherish the house when no one was in it aside from herself, but silence is not a friend to fear and paranoia. As much yelling as she was wont to expel every day, she was happier now than she had been since saying goodbye to her two youngest children in September.

She could hear both of them now, their voices clattering away only a few yards from the house, arguing over something related to Quidditch, doubtless. She could not hear Harry's voice, however, which was little less than she expected; he rarely ever joined in on arguments between Ron and Ginny, which Molly thought was wise of him. Foolish is the boyfriend who would come between a sibling rivalry.

Their words became more distinguishable after a time, and Molly got to her feet and busied herself with filling three glasses with cold water.

"You _blatched_ me, and you know it." Ron was grumbling as he led the pack through the back door.

"You make a fair Keeper, Ronald, but you have no Chasing skills to speak of, and _you_ know _that_." Ginny replied coolly. "You should just accept it and stop insisting that you were cheated. It only makes you look worse."

"Ah, you're only saying that because you can't stand the possibility that I might be better than you at your own position," Ron wagged an accusing finger at his sister, and Molly started to pass a glass to each of them, wordlessly.

Harry gave her a smile, looking slightly amused and slightly exhausted.

"Thanks, Mrs. Weasley," he said quietly, as Ginny shrieked in mocking laughter.

The debate dragged on for a few minutes more, Molly putting a stop to it once Ginny reached out and pinched two fingers into the fat of Ron's arm. "Let it go, the both of you. Ron, bring me your socks. Ginny, you need to take care of Arnold; you can't just leave him lying about my room." She turned to Harry, meeting with his polite gaze. "Harry dear, be sure to bring me those clothes once you've changed."

"Mum, have you wrapped the potatoes?" Ron asked, and even as his feet started forward to carry him to the fridge, Molly seized the back of his shirt collar.

"You've already eaten, Ron. You'll get nothing more till breakfast." She said. "I expect you all to be washed and in bed within the hour."

"It's only seven-thirty!" Ginny cried. "The sun's just gone down!"

"Well, you don't have to go to bed, but you'll have to take yourselves and all your dirt into the sitting room, at the very least. And I'll expect you all to do what I asked before you turn in." She took the hand-towel from the waist band of her apron and shooed them with it.

Harry, Ron and Ginny stole into the sitting room as they were told, and before Mrs. Weasley could leave them in there, she was shepherded by Ron into a promise to bring them a snack.

Harry lit the hearth with the point of his wand and fell on the sofa next to Ginny, sliding his arm around her to feel her warmth and he didn't fail to notice how Ron looked pointedly away, rolling his eyes. It was quite peaceful, for a while actually, to just sit there with the pair of them and say nothing at all. They'd often fell into such lapses of late, and Harry wondered whether it was a good thing or bad. It didn't _feel_ bad, but there was so much to talk about, so much to prepare for. The only thing was that he hadn't told either Ron or Ginny a lick of what he'd learned from Dumbledore. As far as the both of them knew, he was continuing with Occlumency lessons.

Hermione was the only person who had any sort of real clue about what was happening; he hadn't exactly told her anything more than the fact he needed to get a memory from Slughorn, but Hermione was bloody brilliant. Besides, it might've taken someone with less wit than Gregory Goyle to figure out that fetching memories was more involved than simply learning to close one's mind. Harry would do everything to avoid the confrontation that was bound to happen now that the bridge had somewhat opened up between him and Hermione, but he had a while, at least, to formulate some reasonable responses to any questions she might have.

"Hey," he lifted his shoulder a bit, which Ginny's head was stuck to, giving her a little nudge. She'd had her eyes closed, and he smiled down at her as her eyelashes fluttered. "You haven't gotten a letter from Hermione, have you?"

She frowned up at him, and he noted the way her eyes seemed to sadden.

"You know I haven't." She said, and he could hear the barest hint of resentment in her words. "I haven't spoken to her since you practically staked your claim over me."

"No one told you that you couldn't be friends with her," Ron cut in.

Ginny cast a glare in his direction, and to his credit, Ron didn't shrink away.

"Between my boyfriend and my brother tearing at my sleeves whenever she walked into the room, I cottoned on to the hint." Ginny retorted. "Either way, no, I haven't heard from Hermione. Any reason you're asking?"

"She and I spoke at Slughorn's party." Harry admitted, after a pause.

Ron's mouth hung open for a moment, as though he had a thousand things to say and just couldn't nail a sentence down.

"Care to elaborate?" Ginny asked, and she pulled away to sit up straight and face him.

"We sort of… You know, we sort of just talked things out." Harry said slowly. "Sort of. I mean, neither of us have apologized or anything, but I'm pretty sure everything is done with."

"So you just… aren't… fighting anymore?" Ginny asked, both uncertain and somewhat dumbfounded. "Why didn't you say anything?"

"That's seems like something you could have said that same night, mate," Ron finally spoke, his tone dripping annoyance. "Especially considering you haven't even let anyone bring up her name, last I heard. Now she's, what, back in your good graces?"

"You're acting as if she was in some sort of dog-house, Ron." Ginny said reproachfully. "The fight was stupid; honestly, there's no reason to drag it out any further. If Harry and Hermione are willing to forget the whole thing, then I think that's good. That's the mature route to take." She nodded once, as though affirming an unasked question.

"It isn't just about the fight, it's about the fact that she's practically a Slytherin now!" Ron cried. "I mean, didn't you two notice how she fled after Malfoy at the party? She never even came back, or so McLaggen was saying as he followed me about for the rest of the night, looking for her."

Harry's brow furrowed, wanting to speak but knowing he couldn't; he should have told Ron that he'd wanted her to go after Malfoy, that being close to him was necessary for Hermione to get what Harry had asked of her, but then he would've had to explain the entire situation, and so many things had happened now that he couldn't have even been sure of where to begin.

But that was always the way with secrets, and that is the way it always will be. The longer you keep things hidden, the broader the distance between the truth and the lie becomes, until even the prospect of trying to bridge that gap is harrowing.

"She's been our friend for years, Ron." Harry said evenly. "Besides, I know you've missed her. I thought you'd be happy."

"D'you even hear yourself, Harry?" Ron said, building up into indignation. "You sound a right bloody hypocrite! One moment you're against her, and the next you're ready to skip and hold hands with her again. And, in case you missed it, she's still helping that slimy little git! You know she's the one who helped him win that potion, and you still believe Malfoy's a Death Eater!"

"Yeah, of course I do, but you don't!" Harry nearly shouted, keeping his voice just below the level that could reach Mrs. Weasley in the kitchen. "You've made it perfectly clear you don't give a damn what I think of Malfoy, so what's _your_ problem, Ron? I'm not forcing you to do what I do; you don't have to be friends with her if you don't want… Only don't go using Malfoy as your excuse, and stop acting as if I think I'm the bloody captain of your life."

"Both of you need to calm down, before you start another ridiculous schism." Ginny cried, resisting the urge to stand up and swat the backs of their necks. "Ron, Harry's right. You don't have to be friends with Hermione again, although why you're acting like such a _baby_ is beyond me. Can this whole matter be settled, please?"

Ron's ears were still slightly red, but his expression cooled almost instantly. It was a foreboding change, promising that Harry would hear about this at least a half-dozen more times before they all returned to Hogwarts, but for the moment it seemed as though Ginny had gotten her wish.

"Did you hear about Benjamin Knightley's father?" Ginny asked quietly, talking to no one in particular.

"I did," Ron said heavily, and Harry nodded along with him.

The morning before Slughorn's Christmas party, Harry had spied Knightley being led from the Great Hall by Professor Flitwick, and had almost immediately known what sort of news Ben was in store for; the Heads of House rarely selected students out in such a random way, and after what had happened to Hannah Abbott, all it took was a pair of eyes to know. Poor Ben had seemed to know it himself, but the way his throat visibly tightened, and how he'd stalked out of the Hall with his hands balled into white-knuckled fists.

"I don't reckon we'll ever see him again, either," Ginny said, sounding positively morose. "I feel helpless, just sitting here. People are dying."

"Imagine how it must've been for our parents," Harry said, his expression hard. "At least now Voldemort is fighting against people who still remember what those days were like; we're better prepared now, but then… It must've been terrifying."

A cloud of dense tension and cloying nervousness had developed around them, they could all feel it. Even Ron, who was never particularly attuned with the more subtle workings of the universe, could practically taste it, and all three of them were well aware that this subject was one they could do without.

But there didn't seem to be anything else worth saying, so they sat there in a silence that was not at all as comfortable as the one before it had been.

Harry was lost in picturing the world as it must have been before he was born, the world before Voldemort ever learned what fear and pain were. The Death Eaters would have been bold and lively, trying to wreak as much havoc as they could, scraping for power through any means necessary. Voldemort himself must have relished it, Harry knew.

Harry also knew that Voldemort looked back upon those days with an angry, bitter sort of wistfulness; he had not known what he'd had – that all-consuming despair and fear he struck in the hearts of all those who had previously been so unsuspecting. Sometimes Harry could feel that from him, that desire for the same sort of power, that anger at having to start from the bottom once again. And terrifying though this connection Harry seemed to share with Voldemort was, it kept him hopeful in all its darkness; Voldemort considered himself weaker, so weaker he must be. A desperate Lord was better than the cunning, cool, confident Tom Riddle he had glimpsed through Dumbledore's Pensieve.

Molly Weasley had been standing in the doorway to the sitting room for some time, holding a plate of buttered toast and watching the three children in all their silence. It was hard to say what had made her pause before calling their attention to her, but as she'd taken in the sight of them, lounging in front of the fire with such brooding looks on their faces, it struck her how very adult they all looked. It struck her with a bolt of anxiety, because children were meant to be children, even in the midst of war. They aren't meant to be Chosen Ones or fighters of evil, they were meant to keep their noses in their books and believe in their parents.

Harry smiled at her as he took two slices of toast from the plate she held, and Molly felt her own smile freeze on her lips as her heart spasmed. It seemed that every once in a while, when she looked at Harry her grief for him poured forth… And it may have been the maternal instinct to nurture a boy with no mother of his own, or it could have been nothing more than her brain's expected reaction, but in her spirit it was the sweet green eyes and the soft smiles, the memory of the way the sleeves of his sweatshirts used to extend nearly half a foot from his fingertips, and the way he always seemed so _grateful_ for every kindness shown to him.

Harry shouldn't have looked so serious, he shouldn't have had that lightning-shaped scar above his brow, he _should_ have had parents to go home to for Christmas.

Ron took his bread without a smile, as usual, but still she felt suddenly proud of him, for having brought Harry into their lives in such a way. Ron was gangly and clumsy, and more than a little rude, but he was harmless, and he had a heart as big as his father's. Which, actually, was probably why Ron was so emotional.

"Is there anything to drink, mum?" Ron asked, flopping back on the sofa opposite the other two.

"If you want something, come get it yourself." Molly said firmly, beckoning him into the kitchen.

"You just banished me from the kitchen is all I'm saying," Ron grumbled, but still he lurched to his feet and followed behind his mother. Harry and Ginny remained where they were on the sofa, Harry's arm curled over Ginny's shoulder as the both of them gazed at the hearth with vacant expressions.

Ron ventured to the fridge and extracted a jug of orange juice in silence, which Molly had grown accustomed to by now. When he was just a little thing, Ron used to fill her ear with nonsense all throughout the day. He would sit at the kitchen table and doodle unidentifiable animals and family members while Molly cooked, or he would follow her into the laundry room and watch her set the clothes to folding and sorting, telling her about the things he'd found in the dirt outside, or how he'd finally gotten revenge on the gnomes who were constantly nipping at his toes.

However, somewhere along the line (and Molly firmly blamed Fred and George for setting such an example) Ron decided that showing affection toward his mother was not what men were meant to do, and ever since he'd been silent except in argument.

"You haven't told me a thing about your time at school, dear." Molly said, pulling out her wand and levitating Ron's empty water glass to him. He reached up and took it, looking at her as though she'd started raving like a lunatic. But she was not to be deterred. "You must have a deal more time on your hands without your Prefect duties."

"Still upset about that?" He said, and although his eyes were narrowed he sounded more sheepish than anything else. "If you were going to hold it over my head, you should've told me when I asked if I could quit."

"I am not holding anything over your head, Ronald." Molly sighed. "I'm attempting to start a conversation with my son."

But he was looking past her now, his brows drawing together as his gaze aimed over her shoulder.

"What is it?" Molly breathed at once, and as she turned to follow his line of sight she prepared to see Arthur staggering toward the back door, covered in blood.

"I think it's an otter." Ron muttered as Molly finally zeroed in upon what he was looking at, releasing the tension building in her chest.

A short distance from the house there was what appeared to be a leaping ball of silvery blue light, dancing its way closer to the door. As it neared, Molly saw that Ron was right (and also considered the very real possibility that she would need to wear her glasses more permanently); the ball of slivery blue light _was_ an otter, writhing gracefully through the air less than a foot from the ground, its paws occasionally skimming the grass as it turned in corkscrews. It looked as though it was swimming, and it was such a happy thing that it was hard to be afraid of it.

For a moment, it was so close to the house that it vanished out of sight, but then its head popped up to look at them through the window, and Molly, despite herself, laughed.

"What does it want?" She asked Ron, who only stared at the thing as though trying very hard to remember something. "Do we know anyone with an otter as their Patronus?"

Instead of answering her, Ron bellowed for Harry.

It was Ginny who came, and before Ron could ask she explained, "Harry's got a headache. He went to take a bath and get into bed."

"Whose is that?" Ron asked by way of reply, pointing out the window in front of which the otter was gliding a little more frantically, as though wondering what was taking them all so long to fetch it.

"That's Hermione's!" Ginny cried, sounding almost awestruck. "Is she here? When did she get here? How?"

"I thought Hermione's Patronus was a hare…" Ron said, although even Molly could tell he was hoping to be wrong.

"No, that's Luna you're thinking of." Ginny turned to Molly. "Let him in, mum, don't leave him out there in the cold."

"He doesn't want to be let inside, Ginny, he wants someone to follow him." Molly said patiently. "Hermione must be out beyond the wards, she can't get in."

"I'll go," Ron said at once, making for the row of hooks on which his windcheater was hung.

"Don't be silly, I'll go." Ginny declared, marching past him and blocking the door. "After all you've just said about her, I reckon you're not the best one to greet her, are you?"

"It's not as if you can stop me," Ron laughed, but as he donned his jacket and made to shoulder her out of his way, Ginny had turned her wand on him.

"I _can_ stop you, Ron, as I have proven before." She cast a look at her mother for help, and once again, Molly sighed.

"Let your sister bring her in, Ron." Molly said. "Go and get yourself cleaned up, you stink of sweat."

And, amazingly, instead of arguing, Ron sniffed his own armpit and twisted his mouth in a sort of resentful expression of acquiescence.

"Yeah, get cleaned up. Right."

* * *

The awkwardness was almost visible, swirling between them like sand blown through the wind.

"I was expecting Harry, or Mrs. Weasley." Hermione said, standing up; a moment ago she'd been sitting upon her upturned trunk, legs crossed and examining her fingernails, trying to keep her patience. It had taken more than ten minutes for someone to come after her, which would have been nothing if the weather had been so frightfully cold.

"Are you disappointed?" Ginny asked softly, and by the way she kept fidgeting her hands, Hermione could tell she was nervous.

It was a slightly gratifying observation; if Ginny had run to embrace her or been cool and impassive, Hermione surely wouldn't have been able to stop herself from being offended. Self-righteousness had suddenly taken up residence in her chest, and all at once she wanted Ginny to feel nervous. She honestly hadn't known how angry she'd been at the girl until this moment, but now Hermione was recalling the countless days she'd spent eating lunch alone, whilst Ginny sat between Ron and Harry and laughed at all their jokes, knowing that Hermione was by all rights friendless.

"I don't know what I feel," Hermione said finally, after a pause long enough to make Ginny's feet start to shuffle along with the fidgeting of her hands. "It's a little odd to hear you speaking to me, if you must know."

"Yes, well…" Ginny trailed off, her mouth pressing into a thin line. Then she looked over her shoulder and back again, her nervousness becoming even more palpable. "I came to bring you in. Mum will probably have food waiting for you, if you're hungry… Well, even if you're _not_ hungry she'll have food waiting, and she'll expect you to eat it."

She attempted a laugh, but Hermione couldn't find the humanity in herself to so much as smile in return. And instead of simply leading the way to the house, as she probably should have done, Ginny decided to prolong the torture.

"I understand why you're angry with me, Hermione. I don't blame you in the least for it, and all I can say for myself is that I'm sorry." She took a few steps forward, her eyes pleading. "I'm sorry that I was too spineless to tell Harry to stuff it."

"So Harry made you choose, was that it?" Hermione questioned, eyebrows raised.

"No, not exactly… But he made it seem as though I'd have been choosing you over him, and I didn't really know _what_ to do. Plus, you know, I didn't think you two would have it out for so long. I figured you'd be fighting a week, maybe more."

"I could really have used you, Ginny." Hermione said. "I thought you and I were close. At least, close enough to warrant some kind of interaction. You literally shunned me, you _do_ see that, don't you?"

Ginny nodded, but seemed unable to form a response.

"I suppose it doesn't really matter." Hermione said, suddenly feeling as though she might cry.

Emotions were fickle things; one moment you think you're done feeling the weight of a certain moment, or moments, but then they come back and attack full-force when you least expect it. Hermione had believed she was over the pain and humiliation of watching her friends go on peacefully without her, but here she was, allowing herself to relive it.

"It does matter, Hermione. I'm so sorry." Ginny said, and Hermione was surprised to see that the younger girl looked like she might cry as well. "I really have missed you, and I feel unbelievably guilty. I could see how hurt you were, and I did nothing. And, the more time that passed, the more impossible it seemed that you would ever forgive me, or Harry or Ron."

"Do they feel that way, too?" Hermione asked, and Ginny came within an inch of scoffing.

"Harry does, though he won't ever admit it." She said. "Ron's another matter… I don't think Ron even knows what he's so angry about, so it's unlikely he's come close to thinking he has anything to be forgiven for."

"Did they tell you everything?" Hermione asked.

"Everything." Ginny nodded. "Many times."

"So what did you think, then? You must have agreed with their reaction, since you never asked me for my perspective."

"I didn't need to." Ginny looked away, focusing on the handle of Hermione's trunk behind her. "Not even Ron believes that Malfoy cursed Katie, and frankly, I reckon Harry has his own doubts. When Harry told me how you'd thrown him back from Malfoy, I could see why you did it. It sounded like you, sounded like you were trying to do the right thing.

"Like I said," Ginny continued with a heavy sigh. "I had no good reason for siding with Harry. He never even really asked me to, but I was so uncertain. I'm afraid, Hermione, and I have been… for a long time."

"Afraid?" Hermione said, unsure where Ginny was headed now with the conversation. "I don't understand."

"I feel as if I'm losing him," Ginny said, her words choked. She looked at Hermione again with wide, watery eyes. "I was afraid that if I went against him, he would turn away from me, too."

"That's the silliest thing I've ever heard," Hermione said, although she couldn't ignore the sudden urge to comfort her friend, she looked so small at that moment, as though she were confessing some deep, hidden secret. "Harry would never turn away from you. He loves you, Ginny."

"He loves you too, and he hasn't spoken to you for how long?" Ginny cried, quickly turning a little hysterical. And as she went on, it was clear to Hermione that these were things Ginny had been holding in for quite some time. "He's _different_ , Hermione, and I can't put my finger on why. I thought it was Sirius dying, I thought it was finding out about his connection to Voldemort, but it seems so much deeper than that, the more time I spend with him. He hardly ever says a word, and when he does he always looks as though he's hiding a thousand different secrets. He's been pulling away from me ever since he came out of the maze at the Tournament, I just didn't feel it until recently. I've been so bloody _blind_."

"You should have talked to me, Ginny." Hermione said, and now she was far from angry. She felt a little guilty, actually, now that she was learning to understand Ginny's point of view. She couldn't deny that Harry had changed, it was obvious. The change was deepening with each passing day, and it had been easy for Hermione to forget that after having been shunted to the sidelines for so long. Ginny was still in the thick of things, and that sudden knowledge carried Hermione closer to the girl so that she could hug her. "Ginny, Harry will never stop loving you, and neither will I. You shouldn't have kept this in for so long, that sort of thing never does any good."

"I really have missed you, Hermione." Ginny murmured once again, this time through her tears. "You're the only person who understands, I'm so sorry I hurt you. I really am."

"I forgive you," Hermione said quietly, giving her one last squeeze before releasing her. "You're my sister, you know. I have to forgive you."

Ginny stepped back, a wan smile fixed on her lips.

"I'm glad."

"I'm sorry, too." Hermione said genuinely. "I knew at the beginning how confusing the whole thing must have been to you. I suppose I was just bitter."

"Please don't," Ginny said, waving away Hermione's apology. "That just makes me feel worse. Let's just call this whole thing over and done with, shall we?"

"We shall," Hermione said, and she was smiling, really smiling.

* * *

 ** _Author's Note:_**

Once again I have to think those of you who have been loyal to my story. **_ChemicalFlashes_** you are truly a wonderful soul. I'm always glad to see your name pop up in my reviews or in my messages. You deserve all the recognition I can give! This chapter is dedicated to you, friend.

I hope everyone is as satisfied as possible with my writing. I had a lot of fun writing this chapter for some reason. I was actually wondering if I might persuade some of you to offer up some ideas about how Draco might get himself out of trouble with the Death Eater camp. I have my own solution pretty mapped out, but a lot of you actually bring up some very nice ideas in your reviews, I think without even meaning to! And then, I'm not so sure that I'm all that satisfied with what I have planned for Draco. I'd honestly just like to hear how some of you might like the story to pan out. It never hurts to hear some fresh perspective, does it? And I want you all to feel welcome to offer up your own creativity to help me hone this story even further. At this point, with all the encouragement you've all given me, this story is as much for you as it is for me.

This next paragraph is meant for the person who sent me a private message that I am unable to reply to, so most of you can just glaze over it unless you're interested: You seemed upset and confused about my -ise/ize suffixes, and you weren't the first person to point it out, I just didn't think it really warranted much of an explanation. I don't believe many writers on this site are actually English, as I am, but I don't think that really matters, does it? My sister and I have been in Boston caring for my grandmother for two years now, but even in England the -izesuffix is primarily accepted. There isn't really a correct way to end words like realize or analyze, although I will admit that in my handwriting I prefer the -ise suffix. It's just that I use an American computer that does not want to accept a spell-change, so there you have it. I think it's a little comical that I'm addressing this sort of thing, but seeing as I cannot reply directly to that message that was sent for some reason, I figured I'd add this little explanation for the person who sent it, and for those of you who might've been thrown off by it. I'm sorry I upset you, O Message Sender. But I will not always catch the error when my computer fails to correct it automatically.

Sorry for the terribly long A/N, but I always like to talk to you wonderful people whenever I've got the chance. Plus, that guy (at least I'm assuming you're a guy, if you're reading this) seemed as if he really wanted to know where I'm from... I hope that bit was enlightening for you. If you can, set it to where I'm able to reply to you so that we can converse a little more privately if you have anymore questions.

Yours Truly,

Emma Perry


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